Chapter 11: Initial Ranking (2)
As soon as Li Ying finished speaking, the mentors were momentarily stunned—then burst into laughter. The trainees seated on the steps behind them also started laughing and chattering.
The tense atmosphere in the room subtly eased.
In the “black room” (control room), the director nodded.
“Li Ying’s quick reaction was good. Get the music ready, and pull the camera back a bit.”
The performance by Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying was the highlight of the first episode.
To capture the essence of Yue Zhaolin’s “emperor” persona, they needed to emphasize how unworthy he was of the title. That meant no close-up shots. Even though his figure… well…
Still, he was the “tallest among the short ones.”
In post-production, they would first highlight the flaws and mistakes in his dance, then cut to a few trainees commenting on those errors.
After that, insert a soundbite like, “I didn’t expect him to be rated A,” and the rhythm of the narrative would fall into place.
That’s why, in survival shows, there’s rarely any real “defying the odds.” The production team, seasoned and shrewd, knows exactly how to steer audience opinion.
And even if someone does get the “evil edit,” so what? A half-hearted clarification won’t shake the show’s narrative.
In recent years, “being evil-edited” had even become a new type of publicity stunt.
The director looked at the black-haired young man on the screen. When Xingqiong sent over his profile, he had his doubts—
An amateur?
Could he withstand online hate?
The show hadn’t aired yet, so maybe the kid hadn’t realized the weight of what was coming. But in another month, a tsunami would hit—one that could drown someone whole.
He thought.
At that moment, music began to play on the screen.
—
Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying stood on the stage, heads bowed, slightly angled from each other.
They were performing an English song, which began with a soft hum—low in pitch, but hauntingly melodic.
The title was “Replacement.”
Just as the first lyric dropped, both lifted their heads.
The rhythm of the song was strong, but not overwhelming—no ear-splitting beats. The choreography matched that style, focusing mainly on chest pops and wave movements.
The song itself wasn’t difficult, but the choreography had clearly been carefully crafted by the company. It looked impressive—enough to mislead the audience.
All of it was designed to help Fu Xunying blend in and come away with a good result.
“I don’t want to be his replacement — and you know it perfectly well.”
“I don’t want to be his substitute. You know that better than anyone.”
“I’m no longer satisfied with a friendship. But you can’t return to his side.”
“I’m no longer content with just being friends. Don’t go back to him.”
Yue Zhaolin was the first to sing. He caught the beat right before his cue—something he had rehearsed countless times. His movements and vocals were perfectly synchronized.
The song, originally intended to have a “Nordic fresh” vibe, took on a different color when sung by a sick Yue Zhaolin—his voice wasn’t the same.
The gentle male vocals had lost their clarity.
His hoarse tone, mixed with the nasal sound of his breathing, created an almost dreamlike quality—like the murmurs of someone drunk and alone at midnight.
His labored breaths, impossible to conceal due to congestion, didn’t come across as harsh or distracting. Instead, they became part of the performance’s emotional texture.
Yue Zhaolin’s state of mind seemed detached—as if, to draw a comparison, someone was biking and suddenly spaced out, only to snap back after already crossing the intersection.
He had practiced the song so many times that the movements were etched into his body.
At the judges’ table, Li Ying unconsciously rubbed the ring on his index finger.
Compared to Fu Xunying beside him, Yue Zhaolin’s movements were noticeably weaker—one glance was enough to tell. It was likely due to him not feeling well.
This choreography was all about hitting the beats. Miss one, and it’d be obvious.
Yue Zhaolin’s execution was… a little soft.
But—
Li Ying didn’t take his eyes off Yue Zhaolin. From start to finish, his gaze followed him closely.
And it wasn’t just because of his face.
Li Ying couldn’t tell—was Yue Zhaolin doing it on purpose?
The song featured a lot of chest pops and wave motions, yet he had deliberately toned them down.
The strength behind each individual move was weaker, but the structure remained intact. You couldn’t say he was “swallowing the moves.” On the contrary, the transitions between movements were natural and smooth.
His long limbs and flexible build helped. Instead of using brute force, he used subtle cues—the rise and fall of his shoulders, the angle at which he opened his thighs—to express himself.
His raspy, sultry voice paired with the laid-back, almost weary quality of his dancing—
The style was cohesive.
Li Ying’s smile deepened.
Setting everything else aside, purely from a stage performance standpoint, Yue Zhaolin had outshone all the previous acts.
“I don’t want to be his replacement – and you know it perfectly well.”
“I don’t want to be his substitute. You know that better than anyone.”
“Memories that I can’t get over, all your fragrance scattered here.”
“Memories I can’t move past. Your scent still lingers in this room.”
The music faded, leaving only the vocals behind.
A single high note.
It was sung by Fu Xunying.
It felt like a build-up to the climax. Then even the vocals faded, leaving two seconds of silence. Just enough to draw the audience’s focus—
And then, a beat dropped.
Soft, but strong in rhythm.
This section was the dance break of the song. According to the company’s choreography, it involved thigh rolls and hip thrusts to both sides of the body.
Yue Zhaolin was panting lightly, legs spread wide, one hand reaching behind to cover his face. Only the lower half of his face was visible, his hair flying up with the movement.
Even without seeing his full expression—
There was no doubt.
This was the killing part.
Li Ying thought.
The trainees in the “atmosphere group” usually reacted noisily to other performances—gasps, exaggerated amazement, often criticized as over-acted and fake.
But now, that entire section had gone silent.
Mouths hung open.
Even the judges were transfixed. In the midst of their packed schedule, they managed to exchange a glance—nothing needed to be said.
“…”
The performance ended.
Fu Xunying still had stamina left; he wasn’t even out of breath by the end of the song. But per industry habit, he pretended to be—just a little.
He bowed while announcing the performance was over, stealing a sidelong glance at Yue Zhaolin beside him, his gaze unsteady.
Through his in-ear monitor, he could hear Yue Zhaolin’s voice…
Li Ying told them to take a break, then put down his mic and leaned toward the other judges, quietly discussing something.
It didn’t take long for them to reach a consensus.
Li Ying picked up the microphone again and looked up.
“Up to this point, this is the first performance that’s given me the sense of a ‘fully-formed idol.’”
“Whoa!”
“That’s such high praise!”
Someone even jumped up in surprise. “Are we about to see our first A?!”
The atmosphere had already reached its peak.
“Trainee Yue Zhaolin, from Xingqiong Entertainment, your grade is—” Li Ying locked eyes with him, the corners of his mouth lifting.
He didn’t leave them hanging.
“A.”
—
“Have someone stay behind for reshoots,” said the director in the black room, his voice overlapping with Li Ying’s announcement.
“Have Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying perform again.”
The director tapped the table.
On screen, the trainees were cheering and celebrating, but inside the control room, brows were furrowed.
The atmosphere was… off. Unnaturally quiet.
The director pulled up the footage of their performance, ran it at double speed, and sighed.
“This won’t work. It’s unusable.”
Why?
Because it was too good—and it clashed with the character arcs set up by the production team and Xingqiong.
According to the original plan, the edit was supposed to steer Yue Zhaolin into controversy—maybe a 50/50 split in public opinion. But if this stage aired…
He’d be seen as royalty, no questions asked.
Striking visuals, that perfectly hoarse voice, and a naturally lazy charisma—
If this didn’t blow up, it’d be because he quit the industry himself.
“Do a reshoot.”
The director exhaled. “Tell Yue Zhaolin and Fu Xunying to stay behind.”
Even as he said it, he found it ridiculous.
This was the first time they were reshooting a performance because it was too good.
But orders from higher up were clear—he could only do his best to follow through.
Right after Yue Zhaolin’s A grade was announced, Fu Xunying spaced out for a second.
He suddenly remembered—they were supposed to hold hands.
But the rankings had already been called, and he’d forgotten.
Li Ying spoke:
“Fu Xunying, your grade is: B.”
Xingqiong had planned a “hidden prince” arc for Fu Xunying. He would keep a low profile early on, “sacrifice” Yue Zhaolin, then burst out with a big stage later to catapult into the top ranks.
Since Fu Xunying’s singing and dancing were just average, he had no real comedic appeal, and his looks were overshadowed by Yue Zhaolin, the hidden prince storyline was the safest bet.
Still dazed, Fu Xunying didn’t react until Yue Zhaolin gave him a light nudge on the lower back.
Snapping out of it, he quickly bowed to the judges.
The two of them exited the stage together.
Once offstage, Fu Xunying hesitated for half a second before speaking:
“Yue Zhaolin, you…”
He didn’t finish his sentence—because he saw Yue Zhaolin’s body suddenly sway, then collapse forward.
Yue Zhaolin pitched toward the ground, and Fu Xunying froze, unable to react in time—he could only watch helplessly.
In that instant, a pale, slender hand shot out from the side—fast.
An arm looped firmly around Yue Zhaolin’s waist, catching him just in time.
It was Tan Shen, from S.K.
Yue Zhaolin’s forehead came to rest on Tan Shen’s shoulder. The moment they touched, Tan Shen sensed something was wrong.
“His forehead is burning up.”
Meng Yu shot to his feet, abrupt and out of place amid a crowd of stunned trainees.
Cen Chi reacted even faster than his brain and had already rushed down from the upper tiers.
Other trainees suddenly snapped out of it and surged toward them, throwing the scene into chaos.
Li Ying picked up the mic and tapped it—
The sharp feedback cut through the commotion, and the room went still.
He calmly instructed the trainees to return to their seats.
“Cen Chi, you too. You’re ranked first—the cameras will catch you easily.”
He had to stay visible.
Cen Chi hesitated. “But—”
Through the narrow space between Tan Shen and Fu Xunying, he saw Yue Zhaolin’s face—eyes tightly shut, lips visibly pale under his makeup.
He looked so fragile.
A staff member moved in to take over, but Tan Shen spoke:
“I’ll take him to the rest area first.”
Fu Xunying offered kindly, “You’ve got your evaluation coming up. I can take him instead.”
Tan Shen replied evenly, “He’s already not feeling well—don’t bother him. Besides, I’m one of the last to go. I’m in no rush.”
The order of appearance for the initial evaluations was based on the preliminary seating arrangement.
Tan Shen had the face of a cold, quiet mixed-race face—But his way of speaking? Completely different.
Fu Xunying: “…?”
Fu Xunying: “!”
—
He didn’t know how much time had passed.
Yue Zhaolin slowly opened his eyes.
As his mind came into focus, he felt a cool sensation on the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw an IV drip—and someone had tucked a hot water bottle beneath his hand.
Not far away, someone was curled up on a sofa, staring intently upward at the IV bag.
“…Fu Xunying?”
