Trainee Ch.120

Chapter 120: End of Extra

Early July.

The weather in the city was unbearably hot — the temperature outside had soared past thirty-five degrees, and even staying there for a second felt like torture. Not even the combined trending heat of #ZengKaiInLove, #ZengKaiScandal, and #ZengKaiNoCasualties on social media could rival a tenth of the real temperature outside.

Even so, plenty of people were still out and about in the city center.

They weren’t there for work, nor for dates — their purpose was to stop by the mall and take photos or videos of the person displayed on the giant LED screen.

Whether it was beautifully arranged photos or smoothly edited clips, the screen kept switching between them endlessly.

The only constant was the same face appearing in each one.

Some people held up their phones furtively, afraid of being seen.

Some openly pressed their shutter buttons in rapid succession.

Some even switched to selfie mode, grinning brightly.

Here and there, passersby chatted casually—

“Isn’t that Lai Yudong, the one who’s super popular lately?”

“He’s been popular for over two years already.”

“Oh please, you know I don’t really follow the entertainment industry.”

…

“Woke up too early — came out shopping and ran into my bias’s birthday support.”

“Didn’t he go on Countdown to Survival?”

“Yeah, he went on Idol Season three times too — didn’t join the group the last two.”

…

“Buying a birthday ad screen in the city center of a top-tier city — his fans must be loaded.”

“Wait, fans buy those? I always thought they were official.”

“It’s basically like buying an ad spot.”

…

Meanwhile, in the same city — inside a solo interview room.

The camera was aimed at a young man with soft violet-gray hair sitting in the center.

With fill lights and reflectors working together to cast a gentle, natural glow, his already handsome features looked as if they’d stepped straight out of a comic book.

He held a microphone printed with the Sky Video logo and said,

“Hello friends from Sky Entertainment, I’m Lai Yudong.”

He was, of course, the very person featured in those birthday ads — former StarEpoch member Lai Yudong.

It had already been a year since his last solo interview with Sky Entertainment. Back then, StarEpoch had just disbanded, and each member came in one by one to record an individual segment.

This time, there wasn’t any big event behind it — just a routine interview born of continued popularity.

“We heard you’ve been working on a new album lately. Could you share when it might be released?”

“If all goes well, it should come out next month.”

…

“Recently, you’ve appeared on a variety show as a host. Are you planning to shift your career in that direction?”

“I don’t think being an idol and being a host are mutually exclusive.”

…

Entertainment interviews were nothing like the cutthroat atmosphere of audition programs — the questions were mild, and Lai Yudong answered them smoothly while enjoying the cool breeze from the air conditioner.

Of course, if every question lacked bite, it wouldn’t be Sky Video’s signature style.

“Some netizens believe that the first show you hosted being an S-tier variety program was largely due to your popularity — they jokingly call you the pioneer of a new genre: the ‘traffic host.’ What’s your take on that?”

Faced with the sharp question, Lai Yudong couldn’t help but laugh — not in irritation, but as if he’d just heard a poorly told joke.

Then he straightened up slightly, his expression poised and courteous as he replied with a polite smile:

“I recommend applying to XX Media University.”

His gentle tone couldn’t conceal the quiet confidence behind it — the meaning between the lines was clear enough:

Questioning his professional ability? What a joke.

Of course, that was only what outsiders would say — if you asked him directly, he’d deny it at once, with a mildly puzzled look as though he couldn’t understand where such an idea even came from.

The interview ended with a cheerful birthday greeting, and the camera switched off.

Lai Yudong thanked the staff politely, then left the studio with his team.

Even though today was his twenty-second birthday, that didn’t mean he had the luxury of rest. The day had only just begun, and he still had to rush straight to his next job — in fact, there was more than one lined up for later.

…

StarEpoch disbanded in June.

On the day they disbanded, that shameless system vanished along with its comment-barrage feature.

It had appeared out of nowhere, and disappeared just as abruptly, leaving Lai Yudong sometimes wondering if it had all been a figment of his imagination — some relapse of adolescent delusion that he’d invented to justify his impulsive decision to join a survival show.

But every time he rewatched his debut stage solo or the additional performance stage, he became absolutely certain the system had been real.

There was no way he himself would have done something that ridiculous.

Another piece of proof was the so-called empty-shell company the system had set up on its own — LYD Entertainment. Coincidentally, after the group disbanded, he had no plans to sign with any other company, choosing instead to form his own team and go independent.

Naturally, he didn’t have the same massive resources as someone backed by a corporate giant, but at least he was free from all the usual restrictions.

For example — he was able to extend an olive branch to Liang Zhisheng, whose contract was nearing expiration.

Liang Zhisheng had been torn between continuing as a half-in, half-out small-time streamer or returning to a more conventional career path. Then, out of nowhere, came a middle-ground opportunity — with solid pay, and a boss who happened to be a close friend.

So, without hesitation, he joined the studio.

Rather than saying he was working for someone, it was more like they were fighting side by side.

By the second year after StarEpoch’s disbandment, Lai Yudong officially graduated from XX Media University.

During that period, he juggled both work and studies, and even in the middle of his packed schedule, he still managed to squeeze out time to travel to the capital to take the Mandarin Level 1-A certification and the host qualification exam.

The host qualification certificate was something he only received this year — there was no helping it, since students weren’t allowed to take the exam until their senior year.

He took the test last year, got the results early this year, and had only had the certificate in hand for a few months. To formally register as a certified host, he still needed to accumulate a full year of related work experience.

The road ahead was long but bright — and to have started out as the host of an S-tier variety show was already an exceptionally high starting point.

Even as an idol, he’d only ever appeared on a handful of S-tier shows before.

Just like he said during the interview: being an idol was something he would continue doing.

When one’s ability reaches a certain level, it opens new paths — some actors eventually go on to become directors themselves. He wasn’t quite at that level yet, but what used to be a single-choice question had now become a multiple-choice one — and this time, he wanted to choose all of them.

So, right after the interview, his next appointment was to meet with Xu An to confirm the final stages of his upcoming album.

This would be Lai Yudong’s first solo album, titled “Winter Tree (柊)” — the name formed by combining the radical from “Yu (柚/Pomelo)” and the character “Dong (冬/Winter)” from his real name.

It was his own idea — since both names represented parts of himself that he could never let go of, he might as well merge them into one.

Lai Yudong had long planned to approach Xu An for a collaboration, but back when he was still in the group, company restrictions made it impossible. He had to set the idea aside. After the disbandment, he thought he’d finally have time to pick it back up — only to find himself busier than ever, with barely any time left to devote fully to the album’s production.

Xu An wasn’t exactly free either — though his schedule was more flexible than Lai Yudong’s, he still had his hands full with music variety shows, OSTs, and his own albums.

In the end, after countless rounds of schedule adjustments and back-and-forth communication, the two of them finally managed to bring the solo album to life — piece by painstaking piece.

In the car, Liang Zhisheng handed an eye mask to the violet-gray–haired young man who was yawning nonstop.

“Lailai, Li Xu asked if he could reserve a copy of the album in advance. He’s worried he won’t be fast enough to grab one when pre-orders open.”

“How is he still so straightforward yet so roundabout at the same time?”

Lai Yudong accepted the eye mask with a helpless sigh. For such a small thing, it would’ve been much quicker to ask him directly — but Li Xu always preferred beating around the bush.

“Ask him this instead: did he save any concert tickets for you and Xu An?”

“Oh, definitely,” Liang Zhisheng replied with a laugh.

“Then I’ve definitely saved one for him too.”

Lai Yudong slipped on the eye mask.

“Isn’t he inviting me as a guest for one of his tour stops next month? I’ll bring it to him then.”

“Alright. Get some rest, I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

Speaking of Li Xu, it was impossible not to mention how remarkably true to himself he’d remained.

After the disbandment, he actually debuted as a virtual idol, using a “two-dimensional suit” — his character’s setting was that of a demon who had to debut in the human world to restore his family’s glory. He took it very seriously, too: his virtual streams and real-life streams ran on completely separate accounts, a model of “dual-line development, non-interference.”

He even gifted Lai Yudong, for his birthday last year, a set of expensive motion-capture equipment and a custom-made virtual suit — the design was based on Lai Yudong himself, but with a chuunibyou-style twist: “a light-borne messenger blessed with the power of the merfolk.”

Lai Yudong: “…”

The long-buried memories of his chuunibyou phase suddenly began to attack him.

Back to Lai Yudong — his work schedule was more intense than that of a full-time college student.

Just a few days ago, he’d finished performing at several concerts. Early this morning, he’d flown in and gone straight to the hotel. After attending a vocal class in the morning, he went straight to record the interview with Sky Entertainment.

Now, he was on his way to Xu An’s recording studio.

That would take him until about noon — and still, there would be no lunch break, because he had a business meeting next: a face-to-face discussion with the director about his upcoming variety show hosting gig.

And even that wasn’t the end of his day.

That afternoon, there was still a birthday livehouse event — a small-scale fan meeting with a live performance.

It followed the same format as last year: a 1,000-person venue, real-name ticketing, and tickets priced at 0.1 yuan each, which even included a cup of milk tea for every attendee.

Liang Zhisheng had once tried to persuade Lai Yudong to adjust the ticket price — not necessarily to make money, but at least to break even, to avoid having to pay out of pocket for his own performance.

But the young boss had shut him down with a single, baffled question:

“Isn’t the birthday person supposed to treat the guests?”

Liang had no comeback for that.

As both a friend and work partner, Liang Zhisheng saw his job as ensuring two things: that the quality of the work stayed high, and that Lai Yudong remained happy — and, ideally, that he didn’t get scammed in the process.

So in the end, he just let it be.

After all, Lai Yudong was destined to be a free and happy superstar.

…

When he left Xu An’s studio, the clock had already struck noon.

Lai Yudong didn’t even have time for lunch — he went straight to his next destination by car.

The variety show he was meeting about wasn’t some lavish, high-budget production. In fact, compared with the many programs he’d been on, this one could barely squeeze into the mid-tier bracket at best.

Even when Sky Video had invited him to serve as the initiator for Season 4 of “Climbing to Stardom”, the pre-production work hadn’t required his personal involvement.

The reason he cared so much about this particular show was because it was one of the rare domestic music performance programs, and when he saw the guest list under consideration, he recognized a lot of familiar names—

Su Junzhe, Mo Li, Zhou Rui, Yin Zizhen…

Hmm, and also Qu Junwei and Cheng Jinghao, though those two didn’t really count.

After StarEpoch disbanded, every member had gone on to do quite well for themselves.

Zhao Yifeng was constantly appearing on music shows; Qu Xincheng had filmed several campus idol dramas in a row — in short, everyone’s names still showed up regularly on trending searches, variety shows, or film and TV projects.

None of them had fallen into that old, tragic path of “peaked at debut, forgotten after disbandment.”

But many of his friends who never debuted were still struggling down that same path — thrashing and paddling, hoping to make even the tiniest splash.

Yet before those small ripples could ever be seen by the public, they vanished quietly into the vast sea without a trace.

Even his former teammates — the ones who’d done relatively well — now relied mostly on personal charm or specific skills to maintain public attention. None of them had had another high-profile singing-and-dancing stage since, aside from occasional appearances at music festivals.

By contrast, Lai Yudong was the one who had managed to continue thriving in the vocal-and-dance scene — and, in fact, the only one who had.

That was thanks to his solid public image and his appearances on several high-profile variety shows. Combined with his strong professional skills, the online sentiment around him remained overwhelmingly positive.

He had to admit — he was one of the lucky few.

The entertainment industry never lacked stages, but whether one could stand on them because of ability or something else was always a question with no easy answer.

Lai Yudong wanted to contribute something — not only to repay the friends who had supported him, but also to make sure that truly talented people could be seen by the public.

A music performance program like this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

—Inside the meeting room—

“Guests on the show won’t receive performance fees, and they have to handle their own styling. Compared with other programs, the low production cost is an advantage.

But if a performance show could really be both low-cost and high-reward—or even just moderately rewarding—it would’ve already flooded the market like slow-life shows, talent competitions, or reasoning programs.”

Seated across from the director and producer, Lai Yudong took a slow, steady breath before calmly giving his opinion:

“In reality, music shows are extremely rare, and the few that exist have all flopped quietly.

If we follow the old templates, I think the outcome will be about the same — it’s not something that can be fixed just by making it ‘well-produced’ or ‘sincere.’”

“Music shows aren’t mainstream in our country, but we still want to give it a try.” The director let out a sigh. “That’s why we invited you to be the main producer — we want to take a gamble and change the status quo.”

“Thank you very much for your trust.” Lai Yudong gave a helpless smile; he hadn’t expected to be entrusted with such a mission. “But I’m not at the level where I can single-handedly carry an entire show. Besides, this is meant to be a stage for idols to perform their songs, not my personal showcase.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve studied some foreign music programs and have a few humble ideas. I’m not sure if they’re feasible.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“In other countries, music shows usually air on television and combine broadcast exposure with public voting. That gives them both popularity and competitiveness — similar to the concept of talent shows. Of course, getting a variety show on national TV is difficult. Even Climbing to Stardom didn’t make it, so we can set that aside for now. But there are other aspects we can still learn from.”

Lai Yudong continued calmly, “First, a dual-channel format with both live and recorded broadcasts — that ensures real-time engagement and lets viewers watch all performances without skipping ahead.

Second, a voting system — free votes only, no need to monetize it like talent shows do. We can use verified accounts and limit the number of votes per episode.

Third, a reward mechanism — if the only thing people win is an empty title, it won’t inspire any real sense of competition.”

“These are just ideal conditions, but I think it’s a cost-effective plan. If you think it’s workable, I can even borrow better sound equipment so we can present the best possible performance on stage.”

The director and producer were left dumbfounded.

The two exchanged incredulous looks — they’d thought most celebrities would just show up and let the crew handle everything. Having a guest who not only studied the show’s structure but came prepared with constructive ideas? That was rare enough — and from a top-tier idol, it was practically unheard of.

Those trending hashtags — #LaiYudongIsSincere, #LaiYudongTheModelIdol, #LaiYudongAndFansMutualSupport — wait, so they weren’t just a manufactured PR image?

“No problem at all!” the director agreed immediately, his eyes now burning with excitement and newfound respect. “We also want to make this show the best it can be. We’ll do everything we can to meet your requests — but there might be some concerns regarding the voting and rewards.”

He straightened his posture and explained, “Normally, the money fans spend on voting becomes part of the reward budget. Even paid voting barely covers it — free voting is practically impossible.”

“That’s not an issue. The reward money can come out of my appearance fee,” Lai Yudong said lightly, dropping a bombshell as if it were nothing. “It’s unreasonable for a music program to spend all its guest budget on just the main producer anyway. Besides, my fee isn’t exactly a small number.”

“Y-you can do that?” the director stammered in disbelief.

“I can.” Lai Yudong’s tone was calm. “But what I mean is that I will decide how to allocate the rewards — not that you’ll simply cut my fee and decide on the prizes without consulting me. Also, I want the authority to invite guests and have a say in stage design.”

He smiled warmly. “If there are no objections, let’s settle it like that.”

——

“Wait, wait, aren’t you going a bit overboard? Lailai, listen to me—this show’s appearance fee was already low to begin with! And now you’re planning to personally pay for promo banners and featured recommendations — every single episode!?”

Hearing this explosive update, Liang Zhisheng nearly spat out his drink. He tried to talk the other man out of it by sheer persistence.

“That’s right.” The young man with ash-violet hair looked perfectly at ease, his dark eyes curving into a beautiful crescent shape. “Are you planning to perform on the show? I could invite you.”

“…I don’t even have a song to promote. Am I supposed to promote your new album?”

“You could.”

“Don’t—just kidding. I have absolutely no desire to dance.” Liang Zhisheng sighed in defeat. “Fine, go if you want. Seems like a lot of old friends will be there anyway—just treat it like a class reunion. As long as you’re happy.”

“More accurately, it’s a thank-you reunion.” Lai Yudong lowered his gaze. When he looked up again, his smiling eyes were soft, fixed gently on the sky in the distance. “What I’m doing may be just a drop in the ocean for the industry, but I still hope to bring about a small change. Even if, in the end, it’s just a utopia built from love and gratitude—or a mirage born of my own wishful thinking—I won’t regret it.”

He tilted his head, meeting a pair of brown eyes. “I want everyone to be able to chase their dreams without distraction.”

It felt like he had gone back to that day during the talent show, when someone kindly reminded him to talk more in front of the camera.

He had always faced forward with his best self—and he wished his friends would never have their kindness and effort go to waste.

Never give up. Keep climbing to the top.

“Oh—right, I’m heading downtown later. I want to check out the big birthday support screen. Do you want to come?”

“Not later—you’ve got your birthday fan meeting later.”

“I’ll go after that.”

“You’ve got a flight tonight. There’s that luxury brand endorsement event tomorrow—did you forget?”

“I know. There’s still time.”

“Brother, boss, my dear ancestor, my precious son—our great superstar Lai Yudong—are you ever not tired?”

“Tired, sure,” he said with a faint smile, “but no matter what, I still want to see my birthday support with my own eyes.”

…

[Lai Yudong Pomelo: [Image] Thank you all for the birthday gifts — I’ve received them! 💌]

[Lai Yudong Pomelo: I’m really happy to have your company for my 22nd birthday, and even happier that you’ve been with me from 19 all the way to now — and into the future. I’ll also do my best to be there for you every single day ^^]

[Lai Yudong Pomelo: I hope all the beautiful things in this world will meet you like an unexpected breeze. I love you all.]

—————————————————————

Author’s note:

Info Drop —

Post-disbandment careers:

Su Junzhe — Singer-dancer, choreography instructor

Lai Yudong — Singer-dancer, host

Mo Li — Singer-dancer

Zhao Yifeng — Singer

Qu Xincheng — Actor

Bai Xuanhe — Singer-dancer

Li Xu — Rapper, virtual streamer

The story is officially complete! 🌟

<< TOC

**TN

The author actually added three more extras, but I don’t have a copy of them. They were hard to get. So this story ends here. Hope you guys enjoyed it. 😀