Chapter 3: Douyin Hot Search: God-tier Three Seconds
As everyone knows, camera lenses in the entertainment industry have a widening effect—being on camera adds ten pounds. If you want to look good on screen, you have to starve. Eating less is the lowest-barrier method.
If you want to develop that perfectly lean muscle tone, sure—you need good genes, and time. But everyone’s busy making money, so it’s not cost-effective. Starving is the better deal.
So, in Actual, three of the members have narrow shoulders and big heads—scrawny, chick-like builds that rely on padded clothing to hide their flaws. Shen Zhu glanced at Yue Zhaolin again, then slowly closed his eyes. His heart was completely crushed.
How could someone like this exist? With a head-to-shoulder and head-to-body ratio that was out of this world, plus long arms and legs, and such a slender, camera-perfect physique? Shen Zhu was even thankful he wasn’t the top of the group—there weren’t that many fans present. Even if a few unfollowed on the spot, the damage would be limited. The one in real trouble was his teammate, the group’s top member, Shao Meng.
After adjusting his mindset, things felt a little better.
A silent tension simmered among the group as they climbed the backstage stairs. Ahead of them was the prepared stage.
The crowd below stirred restlessly.
Actual took their positions according to the first song’s choreography. Yue Zhaolin stood on the far left, mirroring Fu Xunying on the other end. This song had been released recently, with a “cyber assassin” concept. The dance was bold and expansive, fast and crisp—especially during the chorus.
In contrast, the intro’s rhythm was choppy and intensely rhythmic.
Yue Zhaolin hadn’t trained his fundamentals enough—he couldn’t execute the tremor effect properly. So he practiced the beginning over and over again, listened to the prelude countless times. He thought he knew the song well enough.
But once he stood on stage, saw the dark sea of the audience below, and the lights came on—
A loud roar hit his ears.
“Is that Actual?!”
“Ahhhh——!”
A wave of cheers crashed over them like the tide, platinum-colored lightsticks lit up in the crowd—that was Actual’s support color.
Yue Zhaolin knew those cheers weren’t for him. But even just watching from the sidelines, he couldn’t help being moved by such passionate, overwhelming affection.
Beyond the front row, you couldn’t really see anyone’s face. But those dots of light still guided the eyes of those on stage. They lit up in the darkness like fireflies at night.
‘So beautiful,’ Yue Zhaolin thought.
Then the first beat of the drum hit. His body moved before his brain could catch up—hands crossing in front of his face as the music began.
At music festivals, the crowd is huge, and most people watch the big screen.
The director decides what the audience sees.
At that moment, the camera cut to Actual, and the massive telephoto lenses of fan site photographers locked onto the five of them. Alongside them were daipai—professional fancammers.
There were no seats at the festival, and fans were all filming with shaky phones. In situations like this, groups with popularity always attracted daipai—who captured high-res, vertical fancams of idols to sell to fans later.
He Jie was one of those daipai.
She’d filmed Actual a few times before, so she came to this music festival too—and managed to get a ticket near the front.
She was in luck today. The stranger next to her wore a hat and a mask, staying “calm” the whole time—not hyped at all. Probably not an ordinary fan.
His features were unfamiliar, but He Jie’s curiosity faded quickly. She was just glad the guy wasn’t flailing—less chance of him hitting her camera hand.
She was there to get a high-def vertical fancam of the most popular member of the group. She quickly scanned for him.
Spotted him near the corner. Zoomed in. Target locked.
“…Huh?”
She had seen the face she came to shoot, but something felt off. She let out a reflexive sound.
Wait—did a superhot guy just flash across her screen just now?
Her camera had moved a little too fast—He Jie didn’t quite catch the face.
But… whoever that was, he looked really good.
He Jie had filmed a lot of people, but very few she’d actually found attractive. Her mind was still debating, but her hands were already honest—moving the camera to search for that person.
And as it turns out, when someone is truly stunned by beauty, they really do gasp.
He Jie was living proof.
Her camera had found the figure—standing just behind Shen Zhu. A backup dancer in an all-black tactical outfit, with a tall, striking build. Black mask. Bite guard.
He Jie didn’t personally like that kind of look, but she had a normal sense of aesthetics—and this one was objectively good-looking.
The song was called “Electron Shadow”—“Electron” as in electronic, and “Shadow” representing the cyber-assassin theme. That’s why the dancers were all dressed in black, hidden like shadows, ready to strike with deadly force at any moment.
He Jie wasn’t a professional dancer, so all she could do was describe it metaphorically—
She saw the man plant his feet wide in a horse stance, then pull into a move that looked like yanking a chainsaw to life.
His left hand lifted, while his left shoulder dropped. The gloved hand—fingerless—formed a fist and yanked back in time with the heavy beat.
The movement pulled his upper body into a twist, head following the motion.
Messy black hair tousled.
He Jie still hadn’t seen his face, but she felt it—this dancer’s body, driven by movement, radiated an undeniable grace.
This person…
He danced beautifully.
It was hard to describe the feeling.
There was another dancer at the edge of the frame doing the same choreography—but the difference was stark. The same move looked stiff and mechanical. Technically sound, smooth even, but it just didn’t have that feeling.
He Jie held her breath.
She silently wished the camera would meet that dancer’s eyes.
“Boom—”
Confetti exploded from the ceiling.
At the same time, the main screen’s camera cut to its emotional peak. After the drumbeat, it was supposed to switch back and forth between the two center members.
But somehow—maybe by mistake—the director slipped up. The camera tilted…
And landed squarely not on Shao Meng, but behind him—on the dancer in the half-face mask and bite guard.
Eighteen meters wide.
Over a hundred thousand audience members.
All staring.
The move right before had been a spin, ending in a sudden stillness—so the audience caught that dancer’s black hair flying on the big screen. His features were half-obscured by his tousled bangs, leaving his expression shadowy and mysterious.
He stood sideways, head slightly lifted, his gaze angled faintly downward—cold, almost indifferent.
But his eyes—so beautifully shaped—betrayed that chill. A contradiction of beauty.
The mask covering the lower half of his face traced the curve of a sharp, high nose, and hid everything else with perfect precision—leaving just enough room for the imagination.
“——”
Suddenly, a heavy drumbeat.
The man raised one hand, clenched in a fist, and slid his thumb across his neck—
A perfect match for the deadly intent in the music.
Only then did the audience recall the song’s title—he was the assassin.
Ironically, the bite guard only intensified the effect.
That aggressive gesture, the slight tilt of his head, the wild fall of his hair, the razor-edge sharpness in his brows and eyes—it wasn’t just sexual tension, it was vitality.
Just three seconds.
So short.
And yet, so long.
Long enough to burn him into the audience’s memory.
A beat of stunned silence—then the wave hit.
“Aaaah——!!”
Voices rose from the audience like a ripple.
At festivals of this scale, Actual wasn’t the only act—there were some veteran pop legends and a couple of breakout new-gen idols. So the crowd wasn’t just Actual fans—it was full of casuals.
And casuals? They never hold back their opinions.
The crowd exploded in chatter, loud enough to momentarily drown out the music itself.
Everyone was asking—
“Who is that?”
“He’s so good-looking!”
Actual’s chant was instantly drowned out, scattering in the noise. It took a few seconds before it could re-gather and start up again.
As if drunk, the director cut again—another close-up, this time of a different dancer.
Fu Xunying’s sharp, handsome features filled the screen, and another wave of screams followed.
Not quite as loud as when it was Yue Zhaolin, but still enough to send the venue into a frenzy.
The whole place was electrified. Uncontainable.
It wasn’t until Actual’s performance ended and the members took turns speaking—cheered on by fans screaming loudly and hyping up the atmosphere—that the commotion finally settled down.
Actual exited through the stage’s lower passage, followed by Yue Zhaolin, Fu Xunying, and the other backup dancers.
Even though Yue Zhaolin had never shown his face, he still managed to attract attention from the audience.
Seeing him walking closer, some bystanders quickly pulled out their phones to start recording, aiming their cameras at Yue Zhaolin while calling out, “Hey, handsome!”
From a direction no one was paying attention to, something came flying through the air.
Meng Yu, standing on the right, saw it just in time and instinctively reached out—but he was too late. The object slipped past the edge of his outstretched hand.
“Bang—”
It grazed the back of Yue Zhaolin’s head, shot past him, and smashed against the barrier at the edge of the stage with a loud crack, shattering instantly.
The area went quiet for a second.
Who the hell just did that?!
If it had been just a little off—it would’ve hit him in the head directly. What, were they trying to kill someone?!
The audience nearby, startled and furious, erupted into chaos.
Meng Yu took a deep breath—it was a bottle of soda. How did that even get in?!
Seeing Yue Zhaolin reach back to touch the back of his head, Meng Yu’s mind went completely blank. Amid the shouting, he yelled:
“Are you okay?!”
The other boy looked over, stunned, then shook his head.
Even without speaking, his eyes communicated something clearly.
He looked like he wanted to say more to Meng Yu—but someone beside him pulled him away before he could. Security immediately closed in.
Meng Yu watched him disappear around the corner, then pulled his hat lower and left as well.
—
At Baihua Entertainment, in the male trainee dormitory.
Meng Yu’s roommate was lying on his bed gaming.
At a small company like this, trainees still had to follow their teachers’ class schedules. With no classes at the moment, there was nothing to do but hang out in the dorms scratching at boredom.
He glanced at the door as Meng Yu came in, then put down his game, suddenly more interested. He sat up and asked:
“I heard from Sister Zhang you paid the buyout fee.”
“Yeah.”
Roommate: “Your contract only has a year left. Why not just tough it out?”
Meng Yu was silent for a moment before finally saying, “…I want to join Starlight.”
His roommate didn’t understand.
“You’re the best out of all of us in this batch. They should’ve given you the green light… wait—seriously? The company’s not letting you go?!”
No wonder Meng Yu couldn’t stand it anymore.
Meng Yu knew this roommate was deep in fandom circles.
“Is Xingqiong sending any trainees to Starlight? You heard anything?”
“Hm?”
His roommate thought for a bit.
“Xingqiong has this visual god—he already blew up on supertopics. Judging from the buzz, it’s obvious he’s the company’s golden boy.”
Even though he wasn’t sure why the conversation veered in this direction, he let his imagination run.
“If I could go on Starlight, I’d try to stick close to that guy—guaranteed screen time.”
“…Mm.”
The Zhaozhou Music Festival was riding a massive wave of hype. All it took was for each attendee to post a short clip, and the internet erupted like a storm.
Roughly 10% of the buzz came from legendary songs that stirred up fan nostalgia and had the crowd singing along.
Another 10% was from viral Douyin (TikTok) hits that everyone could party to.
But the remaining 80%—was all about those god-tier three seconds on the giant screen.
Some Douyin users posted the original footage, others added trending background music. Some posted in full speed, others slowed it down and edited for effect.
All it took was one “like,” and your feed would be flooded with the same clip in every variation.
The Zhaozhou Music Festival and its mysterious backup dancer became an unstoppable snowball of hype, growing exponentially.
Before long, multiple trending hashtags appeared on Douyin’s hot list:
#Actual’sGodlyDancer
#ZhaozhouMusicFestival
#ThreeSecondCrush
As the likes skyrocketed, tens of thousands of people became desperate to know who the dancer was.
Along with that, the incident of Yue Zhaolin nearly getting hit while exiting the stage also blew up online.
Most of the videos were either taken from bad angles or came out blurry, so it wasn’t clear whether he was actually hit—but that didn’t stop people from speaking out.
They were furious, calling for whoever threw the bottle to be found and dragged straight to the disciplinary courts.
That’s Douyin users for you—outraged and enthusiastic.
And this wave of attention quickly spilled out beyond the fandom. Among the idol fans on Douyin group, someone recognized that distinctive eye shape—and immediately opened a thread—
