Trainee Ch.7

Chapter 7: Initial Evaluation (7)

The six people already seated in Class A, plus the newly added Yu Yizhen, made a total of seven—exactly the number of members that would eventually debut. But a third of the trainees still hadn’t performed.

This meant that if anyone else got rated as Class A, someone would have to be picked for a battle.

None of the performances that followed were as explosive as those from the web drama group. A few new faces appeared near Lai Yudong’s seat, but unlike Liu Qichu, they weren’t particularly enthusiastic. After exchanging a friendly greeting, there was no further interaction.

After a few more groups, no new Class A trainees appeared. Only a handful made it into Class B, while the ranks of Class F and Class C continued to grow.

Lai Yudong reasonably suspected he wasn’t the weakest one here.

It wasn’t just a hunch or confidence—he genuinely noticed mistakes from some of the trainees, like doing different dance moves than the rest of the team, accidentally hitting teammates, forgetting lyrics and making up nonsense, or singing well-known songs so off-key that the original couldn’t even be recognized.

At least he finished the whole routine. And he managed to sing a few lines mostly on pitch—at least the beginner tutorial’s scoring system had given him points.

He consoled himself optimistically: not good enough to stand out above, but… barely better than some below.

That was, assuming he had a trash-tier cheat system.

Sorry, on second thought, that still probably made him the worst.

“Is it almost over?” Liu Qichu leaned over and patted the shoulder of Liang Zhisheng in the row ahead. After finding out they were from the same hometown, the two had already made plans to go out for hotpot skewers after filming. “Who else hasn’t gone yet? Are there any strong ones left? Can we get one more Class A? I wanna see a battle! You can’t have a first stage without a dramatic moment!”

Lai Yudong yawned sleepily.

Before he transmigrated, it had already been close to his bedtime. After several hours of nonstop filming, his eyelids were so heavy he could barely keep them open. If it weren’t for Liu Qichu constantly reacting dramatically right next to his ear—chattering like the Gatling Pea from Plants vs. Zombies—he probably would’ve dozed off sitting upright.

The battle segment didn’t really have much to do with someone from Class F like him.

Liang Zhisheng glanced around. Their seats were lower down, which allowed him to turn and see most of the trainees, all of whom now had their class stickers on their uniforms. “There shouldn’t be many groups left.”

“Why haven’t you gone up yet? Don’t tell me you’re the last group?”

“What are you talking about?” Liang Zhisheng waved him off dismissively. “I’ve got no skills, no popularity, no drama factor—why would the production team save me to close the show?”

Liu Qichu blinked in confusion. “Isn’t the performance order randomized?”

“Scripted,” Lai Yudong suddenly said something shocking.

“……”

“……”

Two pairs of eyes immediately turned to him.

[I feel like I just heard something big.]

[Is… is he allowed to say that?]

[This kid’s bold. I’m a fan now.]

Lai Yudong: “……”

Sorry, he was too sleepy and spoke without thinking.

Seriously though—was the reaction cam too stealthy?! When did they even cut to him again?

What, see a sheep and just keep shearing it, is that it?

“Yuki…” Even someone as easygoing as Liu Qichu looked hesitant this time. He darted a glance around, then leaned in close to whisper in Lai Yudong’s ear, “You shouldn’t go around saying stuff like that.”

Anyone with half a brain knows that reality shows are more or less scripted. It’s an open secret in the industry—but just because everyone knows it doesn’t mean you can openly say it out loud. The ones who dare to speak it on camera are one in a hundred—true warriors.

Whether that comment would end up as editing material later, and how it would be edited… no one could say for sure!

And on top of that, it was being broadcast live. Live!

In Liu Qichu’s eyes, Lai Yudong instantly morphed into a pure, naive, imported little fool—someone who didn’t understand the cutthroat nature of the entertainment industry.

Now fully awake, Lai Yudong sensibly shut his mouth and returned a sweet, obedient smile.

From now on, his motto would be: Speak cautiously, act carefully.

Just then, Liang Zhisheng was called to the backstage waiting room to prepare for his performance, and the topic naturally shifted away.

“Good luck!” Liu Qichu gave him an energetic fist pump, sending off a brother he’d only known for a few hours with heartfelt encouragement. “Shoot for Class A, but at least land in F!”

“…That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?” Liang Zhisheng said dryly.

“It means I don’t want to pressure you too much!” Liu Qichu nudged Lai Yudong with his elbow. “Yuki, come on, say something too.”

Given his desire to avoid another live broadcast disaster, and his multiple near-misses, Lai Yudong had no intention of participating. He’d worked hard to play the role of a background character—but unfortunately, that trick didn’t work on Liu Qichu.

Under the other boy’s eager and expectant gaze, Lai Yudong could only resign himself to it. He raised a fist and gave a small, restrained gesture of support to Liang Zhisheng. “Good luck.”

“Doesn’t really matter if I do or not…” Liang Zhisheng muttered, then smiled. “But thanks anyway.”

Unfortunately, Liang Zhisheng lived up all too well to his brutally accurate self-assessment. He didn’t have the kind of standout skills that would land him in Class A, nor the comedic flair that made for peak entertainment value in Class F.

Objectively speaking, it was a complete performance—with some minor flaws.

His dancing clearly showed solid fundamentals; both structure and detail were well-executed, beyond what one could achieve in just a year or two of training. His vocals were slightly weaker but still a cut above your average karaoke level.

Had he played to his strengths and avoided his weaknesses, he might have landed above average. But it seemed like his only goal was to scrape by with a passing score.

The song choice and choreography were both on the easier side, suggesting a lack of effort. He came across like an unlucky student forced by the class president to participate in a school talent show—someone who tried, but didn’t really try. The overall impression was that of someone just going through the motions.

Like a salted fish hooked up to a defibrillator: twitching, but not really coming to life.

With such a bland and unremarkable debut stage, he might—if lucky—get five or six seconds of screen time in the edited broadcast. If unlucky, he could be edited out entirely.

Even so, the judges were divided in their opinions. During the muted discussion, Lai Yudong, who sat close to the mentors’ panel, caught a glimpse of their whiteboard—which had ratings ranging from B, to C, to F. The spread was as wide as Liu Qichu’s earlier blessing.

At first glance, it seemed absurd, but in reality, they were factoring in attitude as part of their evaluation.

As idols whose job is to sell dreams, giving your all on stage is a basic form of respect. Anything less is seen as trampling on that passion.

Liang Zhisheng’s issue, while not catastrophic, wasn’t negligible either. He was uninspired, yes. Careless, yes. But if you stripped away emotional bias, his performance was still more coherent than some of the chaotic messes others had put on. The execution was there—but the lack of heart was undeniable, and it cost him.

Zhu Xiuming, a seasoned actor who prioritized professional ability, gave him a “B.” Li Ke, the blunt rapper, gave him an “F,” placing more weight on attitude toward the performance. Wu Xihe and Fu Hanyu, sitting between the two extremes, offered a compromise with a “C.”

After a round of discussion, Liang Zhisheng was ultimately placed in Class C.

[C feels a bit low—some people in B aren’t even as good as him]

[You’re not considering the difficulty levels. Scoring 60 in senior high isn’t the same as scoring 90 in first grade]

[Fair point, but high school exams are out of 150]

[Ah! I just realized Liang Zhisheng is that streamer I follow!]

[Who?]

[A mid-tier streamer with around 100k followers. You can see it if you tap his profile during the trainee intros]

[So obscure, no one cares]

—A streamer?

Lai Yudong curiously glanced at the brown-haired young man walking off stage unhurriedly. He didn’t seem bothered by his rating at all—on the contrary, he gave off the relaxed air of someone who had successfully wrapped up an assignment.

As he passed through the Class F area, Liang Zhisheng deliberately stopped beside Lai Yudong and Liu Qichu, smiling as he pointed upward. “I’ll be heading up, then?”

“So rude! Showing off right in front of us F-rankers!” Liu Qichu cried out theatrically, though he didn’t seem upset in the slightest. In fact, he was more indignant on Liang Zhisheng’s behalf. “Tsk, what a shame. I really thought you’d make it into Class B.”

Liang Zhisheng shrugged. “It’s fine. Class C’s not bad either.”

Lai Yudong silently watched him until he turned to leave, then slowly looked away.

That air of reluctant participation… felt so familiar.

Lai Yudong: [Am I the only one doing missions here?]

System: [How many do you think would be appropriate? I can adjust the number of task-takers based on your feedback.]

Lai Yudong: […One, thanks.]

System: [Glad to see the host recognizes their identity as a mission-bearer.]

Lai Yudong: [?]

Wait—would answering “zero” have gotten him sent home!?

Lai Yudong gave up trying to argue with this ethically bankrupt system that constantly spat out shocking lines. Any further conversation would just leave him staring blankly at the screen, speechless. Fighting off the wave of drowsiness creeping up on him again, he forced himself to refocus on the stage.

After enduring a while longer, it was finally time for the last group of trainees to perform.

So far, no additional trainees had made it into Class A, and everyone was now pinning their hopes for a battle segment on this final group—hoping for a performance that would get adrenaline pumping.

The last group was a five-member team. If the web drama group had the kind of skills worthy of debut, then this team had the presence of a debut-ready boy band. Just standing there, they made people wonder, “Wait, are they already idols?”

To use industry lingo: they had strong star quality.

At a glance, all five members were above-average to high-tier in terms of idol looks. Their styles were distinct enough that you wouldn’t run into the awkward “handsome but forgettable” problem.

However, the biggest visual impact didn’t come from their attractive faces—it came from a sudden dip in the height lineup.

Aside from that dip, the rest of the group had fairly even heights, all hovering around 185 cm.

But the black-haired boy standing second from the left, barely over 170 cm, looked like someone had punched a dent into the lineup. His presence drew even more attention than the group’s platinum-blond center.

The five of them hadn’t even finished lining up on stage when the live comments exploded like a tidal wave.

[Mo Li! I’ve been waiting all night for you! ]

[The height dip is killing me, hahaha]

[Who’s the one on the far right? He’s so handsome!]

[??? Zhen-baby’s here?!]

[Did someone fall into a pit, lol]

[Mo Li actually came… this hurts…]

[Can someone tell me who they are? They look really popular.]

“This group’s gonna be amazing!” Liu Qichu slapped his thigh with excitement, then enthusiastically introduced each member like a variety show bestie, listing their names from left to right: “Qu Junwei, Yin Zizhen, Mo Li, Lin Xiao, Song Yanxi. This is the popular contestant squad! Especially Mo Li! If this doesn’t lead to a battle, I’m not buying it. No wonder they saved them for the last one!”

Lai Yudong really wanted to keep his mouth shut until filming wrapped, but his training in broadcast journalism and strong language habits made it impossible not to speak up as the fact-check police: “Technically, the ‘second-to-last’ performer is the one who ‘closes the show.’”

Liu Qichu looked blank. “Huh?”

[Aaaahhh finally someone corrected it! Every time someone misuses ‘second-to-last’ I get secondhand discomfort!]

[Wait, what? I thought ‘ second-to-last’ meant the last one?]

[He’s so precise—instant pick.]

[LOL his Chinese is too good, Liu Qichu’s completely baffled.]

Lai Yudong: “……”

Caution. Speak. Carefully.

<< _ >>

**TN

“压轴” (yā zhòu) is a traditional Chinese performance term, and its meaning is often misunderstood in casual usage. “压轴” refers to the ‘second-to-last performance’ or the ‘highlight act’ in a traditional Chinese opera or stage show. Nowadays, many people mistakenly use “压轴” to mean “the final/last performance”, thinking that the best is always saved for last.