Trainee Ch.3

Chapter 3: Initial Evaluation (3)

The same nervousness on stage, the same rough start—Xu An’s beginning mirrored Lai Yudong’s with almost 100% similarity. But Xu An used his strength to prove that these weren’t the kinds of things a beginner-level slime from the novice village should be worrying about.

Just as everyone was holding their breath in anxiety over his upcoming performance, Xu An quickly composed himself. He shut his eyes tightly, blocking out all external information except for the music.

From that point on, he didn’t make a single mistake. His ethereal and airy voice was full of vivid imagery, like a torrential downpour crashing down in the stillness of night—wild and relentless, washing over the entire city. Every ounce of sorrow was magnified a hundredfold, and when the chorus hit, it pushed the emotions to a soaring climax.

Compared to Lai Yudong’s melodramatic ballad that could make people feel worse than death, Xu An’s voice conveyed a genuine bitterness of heartbreak. In Liu Qichu’s words: “I’d have to be dumped ten thousand times to sing with the kind of emotional depth he has.”

As the final note faded, Xu An’s expression froze at the moment where his eyes were cast down and lips lightly pressed together—fragile and shattered, performed with aching clarity. Even after the accompaniment ended, everyone was still immersed in the lingering echoes of the performance, unable to pull themselves free.

If not for the stumble at the beginning, this performance could have been called perfect.

Xu An raised his head and gave a small, uneasy bow. “Thank you.”

That one line pulled Lai Yudong out of the world Xu An had created. He blinked like someone waking from a dream, then lifted his hands and was the first to offer a small round of applause for such a brilliant performance.

The other trainees snapped out of their daze, quickly joining in. Thunderous applause filled the small studio, and the enthusiastic response allowed the tightly-wound Xu An to finally let out a sigh of relief.

Lai Yudong couldn’t help but smile—not for any particular reason, just because of the way Xu An’s eyes lit up when he heard the applause.

Even after adjusting and singing flawlessly, Xu An still didn’t look confident. It wasn’t until he received positive feedback that his expression finally relaxed.

[Bullfrog! Bullfrog!]

[I’m a fan now—definitely Class A material.]

[Of all people to follow Miura, it had to be Xu An. Such a pity. If it were a mediocre vocal instead, he’d have easily secured Class B, maybe even contended for A.]

[Be bold—he could’ve passed as a dance trainee too.]

[Yuki: Was that really necessary?]

To enter Class A, one needed either strong overall skills or exceptional talent in a specific area. Xu An was clearly the latter. However, since he had made a mistake at the start, it didn’t feel appropriate to put him straight into Class A. The mentors decided to give him an additional test round.

It was both a graceful out and a second chance.

While the mentors were discussing, Lai Yudong was in the middle of a heated debate with the system.

According to the system, the parallel world had no record of a “Lai Yudong.” The identity he was using now was essentially a freshly created account in this universe, into which data from the original world had been imported. Black tech had been used to eliminate the unnatural feeling of a person suddenly appearing out of nowhere, so there’d be no dog-blood plots like identity theft or someone discovering he didn’t exist.

As for why the bug couldn’t be fixed—it was because the new account had already been fully loaded, and could no longer be edited. It was like how in most games, once a character is created, the only thing you can change afterward is the nickname, and that usually takes some cash.

Lai Yudong: [Can I use cash to change my identity? Is there a point shop where I can buy items? Can I unlock a golden finger cheat? Do I have a character panel?]

System: [None available.]

Lai Yudong: [Are you sure you’re not just an unfinished beta version? Other people’s systems have all that.]

System: [Host, maybe stop reading so many system novels.]

Lai Yudong: [Excuse me?]

In this era where everyone is constantly hustling and competing, it’s rare to encounter such a plain, unambitious, thoroughly unremarkable system—one that wants nothing and offers nothing. It was a perfect match for Lai Yudong, who’d been thrown into a survival show.

A prime example of your average male college student who’s useless at both singing and dancing.jpg

Maybe this is what people mean by “every pot has its lid”—a system and host that truly deserve each other.

Lai Yudong: [What about the rest of my persona? Any talents I’m good at? How long have I been training?]

System: [Everything is based on your actual experience.]

Lai Yudong was so caught off guard by the system’s brutal honesty that he didn’t even know how to react.

If he didn’t have any sort of background or story, just sitting in the studio would make him look like the embodiment of a rigged casting—his whole presence screaming “capital-backed.” Otherwise, how could anyone believe he passed the auditions?

But as a complete novice in broadcasting with only five minutes of “training,” if the system tried to give him a flashy backstory—like having studied classical vocals since childhood, being part of a street dance crew, or even having trained in Korea for two years—that would be straight-up fraud. It could very well land him on a digital wanted poster for public shaming.

Lai Yudong buried his face in agony.

First came #MiuraYukiBackedByCapital, then #MiuraYukiFakedHisResume—whichever way you sliced it, he was doomed to be permanently linked with scandal.

Whichever direction he turned, the system seemed dead set on ruining him.

Thankfully, it wasn’t completely heartless.

System: [The official setting is that the production team brought you in last-minute to make up the numbers.]

Lai Yudong: [Excuse me? Elaborate.]

System: [A few days before filming began, one of the trainees had to drop out due to a worsening back injury requiring surgery. At that point, it was too much of a hassle to urgently hold auditions and sign someone new through an agency. That night, the director happened to see you at KFC. Since you had decent looks and the right vibe, they invited you on the spot to fill the slot.]

Lai Yudong: [So you’re telling me I got picked for a 1-in-100 survival show just because I was eating chicken at the right time?]

System: [Because it was Crazy Thursday.]

Lai Yudong: […]

Well, fair enough. No one can resist Crazy Thursday.

Today, we gather here not for fried chicken—

No—

But for the future of the entertainment industry!

Donate him 50, and hear about his debut plans.

The system’s assigned plot setup was just believable enough. Lai Yudong was even a little grateful that—for once—it chose to act like a decent person, instead of pouring more oil on the fire. It almost made him suspect the system was actually an undercover HR rep from the production team, sent to scout emergency backup trainees.

But what bothered Lai Yudong more than that soulless exposition was the casually glossed-over backstory.

That same experience—fictional for him—had been someone else’s reality.

Lai Yudong rubbed his temples. Now that he knew there was a real story behind the spot he had slipped into, he could no longer coast through this with a clear conscience. Even just sitting in Class F felt unbearably heavy.

The misfortune he’d casually inherited… was someone else’s unattainable dream.

Lai Yudong: [So… does that mean he won’t be able to dance anymore?]

System: [Who?]

Lai Yudong: [The trainee with the back injury.]

System: [Oh, that was just an excuse to withdraw. He’s doing missions in another world now.]

Lai Yudong: […]

So it was just a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul?

By the time Lai Yudong was done wrangling with the system, Xu An had just wrapped up his retest. He’d chosen an extremely difficult song purely to showcase his skills, and his near-flawless performance earned him an even more enthusiastic round of applause than before.

[This level of vocal skill? He could be a mentor himself.]

[Xu An has to debut!]

[Sisters I’m sobbing… our Anmu baby finally has a stage—TT^TT QAQ]

[Why didn’t he sing his own song? I really wanted to hear that finale track.]

[No rights to it?]

[How could he not have rights to a song he wrote himself?]

Lai Yudong clapped along involuntarily, just like the barrage of confused comments flying past—why hadn’t Xu An sung one of his own songs?

If he had pulled out even one of his well-known works, it would’ve been an absolute nostalgia bomb.

“Very good, just as expected from the champion of Hear My Voice.” Wu Xihe smiled in approval, her praise overflowing. “This is the best performance I’ve heard so far. Your vocal ability is hands-down the strongest among all the trainees. Keep it up—I have high hopes for you. If there’s a chance, we should collaborate sometime.”

In terms of professional qualifications, Wu Xihe—being a singer herself—was undoubtedly the most authoritative of the mentors. And the fact that even she extended an olive branch showed just how outstanding Xu An’s performance truly was.

Xu An gave a shy smile. “Thank you, teacher.”

“Your technique is strong, your vocal intelligence is high, and your emotion and control are both on point. As a layman, I won’t go overboard critiquing a professional in their own field,” Zhu Xiuming said calmly. “I’ll just point out one flaw.”

“Please do,” Xu An replied nervously.

“You sing beautifully—but why won’t you look at the camera? Be confident. Keep your head up. Don’t stare at the floor while you sing. Your fans aren’t hiding under the tiles.”

Xu An was momentarily at a loss. “I…”

“Exactly, exactly—Mr. Zhu has a point,” Li Ke chimed in with a cheerful grin, lightening the mood. “Xu An, you really should learn from Yuki. He sang that badly, and still didn’t look down until the very end. Now that’s conviction.”

[He has confidence… just not much of it.]

[How to rate Yuki’s singing? Low EQ: Terrible. High EQ: Brimming with conviction.]

[Whoever’s directing the camera—give them a raise. Yuki’s expressions had me in tears.]

[What the heck is “Yuki” LMAO hahahahaha]

[Yudian speechless.jpg]

[Deduct points for that pun!]

Lai Yudong, suddenly dragged out and flogged again: “…”

Wake up, people—I was looking at the lyrics and pitch tuner, okay?

“I have one more question,” Fu Hanyu spoke up. “Although you were the champion of another show, that doesn’t automatically make you number one here. The two programs are fundamentally very different. Choosing to join a survival show means letting go of past achievements and starting from zero on an unfamiliar path. It also means you’ll inevitably face speculation and doubt.”

His voice was warm and gentle, like a spring breeze—yet his words laid bare the harsh reality with painful clarity.

Lai Yudong swallowed nervously, feeling as if he were the one under interrogation.

Fu Hanyu smiled. “That kind of choice takes a lot of courage, so I’m really curious—why did you decide to enter a survival show?”

“Well…” Xu An pursed his lips. “I didn’t come here to win, or to debut.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard someone in a survival show say they don’t want to debut. At least pretend on the first stage,” Li Ke teased with a laugh.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” Xu An flailed a little, clearly flustered. “It’s just… I haven’t had a stage in a long time. I wanted to use this platform to tell the people who like hearing me sing—um, not fans, I mean—well, listeners… that I’m still singing. I haven’t given up on music.”

[Is Mandarin that hard?? His constant corrections are killing me ]

[His way of addressing them just kept getting more and more humble LOL]

[Can someone explain—why doesn’t Xu An have a stage anymore? Isn’t he a champion? I mean, it was a vocal-focused show, but I remember he was quite popular too?]

[Why else? Crappy company being crappy, obviously.]

Fu Hanyu gently coaxed him further: “Have you ever thought about this—if you debut, you’ll have access to even more stages.”

“……”

Xu An was silent for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “I know… but I don’t want to feel that crushing disappointment again. It’s better not to hope in the first place.”

In the end, the mentors unanimously placed him into Class A—as expected, without suspense.

Xu An gave a deep ninety-degree bow. Amid a wave of congratulatory applause, he exited the stage and began walking toward the audience seats behind the mentors.

[Class A is almost full now.]

[Who else is good coming up? Not gonna lie, I want to see a battle.]

[Teacher Jin!!!]

[Yi Feng, Yi Feng, Yi Feng!!]

[Qu Qin… Cheng? Isn’t he from a big company? Should be strong, right?]

[His name is Qu Xincheng…]

The audience area was arranged in a tiered, stepped formation—divided top to bottom into four zones: Class A, B, C, and F. Only Class A had a strict seven-person limit, while the other classes had no cap.

By assignment, Xu An should’ve headed to the very top—to the A section—but he paused on the stairs beside the F-class area, as if he was looking for someone.

[Who’s Xu An looking for?]

[Probably took a wrong turn? He shouldn’t know anyone in the trainee pool.]

[Anmu baby! A-Class is upstairs!]

Among the flurry of names scrolling through the comments, Lai Yudong noticed a few lines that stood out. Curiosity piqued, he turned his head slightly to check—

—and was caught completely off guard as his gaze met Xu An’s.

They were seated in the same row, just about a meter apart.

Lai Yudong didn’t think much of it—he figured it was just a coincidence—so he returned the look with a polite smile.

However, something completely unexpected happened.

Xu An walked straight toward the dazed blond-haired boy, his expression both awkward and nervous.

“Y-Yu… Yuki, is it okay if I call you that?”

Lai Yudong: “??”

—

Author’s Note:

A quick explanation—

System: Oops, input error. Accidentally used your old internet username as your real name.

Lai Yudong: Oh! So I’m supposed to pretend to be a foreigner then.

System: Everything will be based on your actual experience.

Lai Yudong: Oh! So other than being a foreigner, the rest of my background is pretty much the same.

His interpretation: The name on his ID has been changed to his old online handle.

A clueless little dummy who heard the name and immediately assumed he was supposed to be a foreigner… and never thought to ask further.

<< TOC >>

**TN

Anmu (‘mu’ was added for softness or as a cute suffix—common in fandom naming) Yudi (Yu-Junior / Yu-Little Brother)