Chapter 14: [Goose Group Gossip]
The sun was high in the sky.
Inside the dormitory building—
Soft, melodic music floated out from the ceiling speakers in each room, gradually growing louder.
Cen Chi, who slept on the top bunk above Yue Zhaolin, sat up groggily with a messy mop of bed hair, squinting against the light.
Directly in front of him, a dark, round camera lens stared back. The sight startled him so much he reflexively kicked the bedboard.
Bang—
Meng Yu’s voice came from the opposite bunk: “Cen Chi, what happened?”
Feeling a little embarrassed, Cen Chi replied quietly, “I forgot… There are cameras running 24/7 for the show.”
Chu Li, ever understanding, responded gently, “It’s fine. Everyone’s awake now anyway.”
As Cen Chi climbed down the ladder, he called out, “Zhaolin, you up—” But he suddenly went quiet, seeing Yue Zhaolin still curled under his blanket, completely motionless.
Meng Yu climbed down from his own top bunk and said softly, “Zhaolin probably hasn’t recovered from his cold yet. Let’s give him a few more minutes.”
Knock, knock, knock—
Someone was at the door.
Chu Li pulled on the pink sweatshirt that identified him as a member of Class A and casually opened it. Standing outside was Fu Xunying, dressed in a blue sweatshirt.
“Good morning. I’m here to wake up Yue Zhaolin,” Fu Xunying said naturally.
Spotting the lump under the blanket, Fu Xunying walked over and crouched at the foot of the bed, calling out, “Yue Zhaolin, Yue Zhaolin, time to get up.”
Yue Zhaolin was nearly flawless in every way—except he was notorious for being grumpy in the mornings.
Fu Xunying had suffered the brunt of his morning moods more times than he could count. Eventually, he learned to deal with it by teasing Yue Zhaolin a little, which always seemed to help.
He’d even come up with a “Yue Zhaolin Wake-Up Guide”: Don’t touch him. Don’t pat him. Don’t get too close. Keep your voice at a normal volume.
And so, the trick worked.
The silent lump beneath the blanket finally shifted.
Meng Yu stood in the corner, his eyelids drooping slightly—this was not showing off, but silently showing a familiar intimacy…
Cen Chi silently took note of Fu Xunying’s technique. “So that’s how it’s done. Got it. Next time I won’t bother you to come up here.”
At first glance, it sounded warm, helpful, and considerate.
Fu Xunying: ?
Yue Zhaolin sat up, clearing his throat, still a bit hoarse. “Fu Xunying, why are you just standing there?”
Fu Xunying instinctively stepped back a couple of paces.
While Yue Zhaolin headed to the bathroom, Tan Shen from Class F, wearing his usual gray sweatshirt, came in.
No one knew how long he’d been waiting outside.
Tan Shen walked over to Fu Xunying, who glanced at him briefly.
Looking down at Fu Xunying, Tan Shen teased, “Why do others just call him ‘Zhaolin,’ but you always say his full name?”
Fu Xunying replied, “You don’t get it—calling someone just by their first name without the surname? That’s… doesn’t it sound kinda awkward?”
But anyway…
He still called him by his full name.
When Yue Zhaolin returned dressed, he saw Tan Shen, who offered an invitation, “Zhaolin, good morning. Want to go to the cafeteria together?”
“Sure.”
Chu Li asked, “Are you going to put on makeup?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. We’ll be practicing dance later and sweating—I figure the foundation would just come off.” Last season, except for performances, everyone mostly went makeup-free.
“Alright, let’s go then.”
Tan Shen gave Yue Zhaolin a look—no makeup and still pulling it off.
Halfway out, Yue Zhaolin suddenly remembered the medicine and water bottle on the desk. He looked back, only to see Cen Chi had already packed them into his bag and was carrying it.
When Cen Chi saw Yue Zhaolin glance back, he beamed and said, “I’ve got it—let’s go!”
The cafeteria was on the first floor. On their way to the elevator, a few other trainees from neighboring dorms came over to chat.
It was like stars orbiting the moon—Yue Zhaolin was clearly the center of attention.
Of course, not everyone appreciated this kind of groupie behavior around popular trainees like Yue Zhaolin and Chu Li. A separate clique had formed in silent opposition.
This smaller group was currently led by Wei Huahao from Guangying Entertainment.
Guangying used to be a film company. Though it had declined over the years, a skinny camel is still bigger than a horse—it still outranked most idol agencies.
People naturally gravitate toward power, and Wei Huahao found himself with his own following.
“Such pretentious fakes…” he muttered with a click of his tongue.
His agency had once tried to cozy up to Xingqiong, proposing a CP storyline on the show. But Xingqiong’s response had been perfunctory at best—completely dismissive.
And yet now? They were selling the act after all.
With everyone.
Wei Huahao’s gaze fell on Meng Yu, trailing behind Yue Zhaolin. An independent trainee with no company backing? His irritation flared.
What the hell.
“Let’s go.”
…
After breakfast, they arrived at the designated practice area just before 9:30. It was a large hall spacious enough for over a hundred trainees to rehearse together.
Once everyone had assembled, Li Ying stepped up onto the elevated platform at the front and revealed this season’s theme song on the screen: “Meteor.”
The theme of the song: Burn with everything you have. Move forward fearlessly. Fight for your dreams.
Li Ying addressed them: “I was once a trainee myself, so I know the hunger each of you carries—to debut, to rise. You’re here to share this journey together.
“When the competition ends, some of you will debut in glory. Others will leave with regrets.
A talent show is like a meteor shower—brief, yet brilliant. So—
No matter what, I ask all of you trainees to give it your all. Let your own light shine. With your backs against the wall, fight hard and shine bright.”
As soon as Li Ying finished speaking, a wave of applause swept through the trainees.
Next, a rehearsal video recorded by the dance crew was played to help the trainees learn the choreography.
Li Ying continued, “Tomorrow, the mentors will review your initial practice progress and give feedback. The day after that, in the morning, you’ll be tested on the theme song performance.”
A commotion broke out below the stage.
“We only get a day and a half to prepare?!”
“There’s barely any time! We have to learn the dance and memorize lyrics—and sing!”
“Voting is about to start. We have to give it everything. The solo cam really shows what you’ve got. If no one notices you now, it’ll be harder later.”
“This is way too rushed!”
Li Ying waited for the chatter to settle before announcing, “The center position for the theme song will be selected from among the A-Class trainees. Three days from now, there will be an open competition with everyone voting.”
“One week from now, the center and the rest of the selected trainees will record the official theme song stage.”
“Whaaa—”
Another wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the room.
That was the end of Li Ying’s segment. The rest of the session was led by the dance mentor, who began by guiding the entire group through the choreography.
With so many people, it wasn’t possible to correct each person’s details during this general session, so how well each trainee absorbed the choreography would depend on their own effort.
The thirteen trainees who were initially rated A stood in the front row.
As the mentor demonstrated on stage, the A-Class trainees followed along. By the third run-through, many of them had already grasped and reproduced 70–80% of the choreography.
And Yue Zhaolin…
—Unlike the music festival Electron Shadow, where companies brought in professional coaches to correct every detail, this time… they were completely on their own.
And so, surrounded by a group of top-tier A-Class trainees, the gap between Yue Zhaolin and the others became increasingly apparent.
Multiple silent cameras had already locked onto him from various angles.
After a while, Cen Chi started to feel something was off. He glanced at the cameras and muttered, “Those…” But as he remembered the mic clipped to his collar, he abruptly stopped talking.
Yue Zhaolin, however, simply smiled and said directly, “Cen Chi, I don’t really get the logic behind this move. Could you teach me when you have a minute?”
Cen Chi replied at once, “We can do it right now!”
He began demonstrating while thinking about how to explain it in the clearest way possible. Yue Zhaolin heard him drop a few Korean words mid-sentence and looked intrigued.
That sparked a story.
Cen Chi had a whole reservoir of complaints and let them pour out.
“I wanted to be an idol, so I paid my own way to train in Korea. The program was like a machine—totally assembly-line. Constant drills, and the food sucked.”
“And every day, I had to fight off not just kimchi, but actual b*llying.”
“The teachers were in on it too. They ganged up with the others to isolate me. Luckily, I’d learned boxing. I stuck it out and survived the whole program before coming back. Heh.”
Cen Chi glanced around at the nearby cameras, a bit smug. “No way the show’s gonna include any of this in the final cut.”
Not even the behind-the-scenes reels.
After all, if you blow it up, it could affect ‘international relations.’
A few rows back, Fu Xunying had caught every word, his mouth twitching slightly. “….”
For someone who looked so reckless, Cen Chi actually had a decent head on his shoulders.
But Fu Xunying was distracted.
He knew Yue Zhaolin was destined to be sacrificed—a slow, creeping realization that left no satisfaction in its wake.
Around them, countless black camera lenses glinted silently, trapping Yue Zhaolin like a web.
It felt like… a coordinated takedown.
Fu Xunying’s heart skipped a beat.
…
After the large group dance class ended, the trainees scattered, heading to their respective practice rooms to fine-tune the choreography in front of mirrors.
Each room was equipped with tablets and printed lyrics to assist with rehearsals.
Yue Zhaolin pulled out a bottle of mineral water and took his medicine.
Maybe it was a side effect of the cold meds, but after dancing for a while and breaking a light sweat, his eyelids grew heavy. Sleepiness crept in.
He pushed through for a bit longer, but the air in his sinuses felt dry and burned. He decided to splash some cold water on his face in the bathroom.
But just as he stepped into the hallway, a staff member stopped him and guided him to an empty room. Inside, they handed him his phone and left.
A voice came through on the other end: “It’s me. Liu Li. Can you hear me?”
Yue Zhaolin: “I can hear you.”
He instantly recognized the voice. Liu Li—Director Liu.
Liu Li said, “For the final cut of Starlight, they’ll most likely use your first performance.”
Yue Zhaolin froze, eyes lifting sharply. His breath became light and controlled.
Liu Li’s voice remained calm and steady as she continued: “Zhaolin, you did well.”
“Your stage performance changed the company’s decision.”
“For the rest of the competition, I need you to be sharper—more dramatic. Can you do that?”
She waited for a reply.
A slightly distorted voice came through the speaker.
“Anything goes? Including how I act, how I speak… stage presence, fake CP?”
Liu Li paused for a moment, then gave a soft laugh.
“Yes. Zhaolin, enjoy the show.”
Yue Zhaolin curled his lips into a smile.
“All right.”
His skin behind the ears flushed with heat—adrenaline, mingled with urgency.
The adrenaline came from exhilaration.
The urgency? From how unprepared he still felt for the theme song. He needed more time, more practice.
At the very least, he wanted to give something back—to the love that waited for him, even in the cold wind.
Even if he were as fleeting as a meteor, he had to burn bright enough to leave a mark.
—
On the forum.
A new post appeared quietly, without fanfare:
[Goose Group Gossip | Been in the industry for years, never seen someone get this kind of royal treatment]
[Original Post]
RT
Everyone else had left—but someone stayed behind. And why, you ask?
Because they weren’t satisfied with their first performance and made the crew re-record it. Teehee.
[1F] The only talent show filming right now is Starlight, isn’t it?!
[2F] Whoa… this is some serious tea.
[3F] ?!?!
No names were mentioned, but the thread quickly filled with speculation—it had to be Starlight.
The post hadn’t fully exploded yet, but backstage, the production team was already in full-blown panic mode:
“Who leaked this?! Start investigating. Now. I want names and consequences.”
“Yes, Director Cheng. What about the forum post… should we delete it?”
Delete it? And make it even more obvious?
Leave it? Who knows what might happen next?
Voting shows are a minefield. Everyone knows there’s a script—but you’re never supposed to admit it.
The show must always appear “positive,” “transparent,” “not pushing fans to vote or spend money.”
If the re-shoot gets confirmed and goes viral, it could destroy the entire season.
Director Cheng frowned. “How’s Xingqiong responding? Never mind, I’ll call them myself.”
“Hello? Director Liu? It’s Cheng Zhou. I—what? It’s already trending?!”
…Who did this?
Were they trying to kill the show on purpose?!
