Trainee Ch.9

Chapter 9: Initial Evaluation (9)

A showdown between top vocalists doesn’t require dancing—just standing and singing is enough.

In terms of vocal ability, there wasn’t much of a gap between Zhao Yifeng and Lin Xiao. However, Zhao Yifeng had the edge when it came to vocal interpretation. The phrasing of lyrics, articulation, decisions on vocal technique—all seemingly simple details—can better convey a song’s emotion and meaning, and are key to whether a singer can resonate with the audience.

Zhao Yifeng smartly chose a competition-friendly song—rhythmically strong, clearly layered, with a wide vocal range. Its progressive structure amplified his interpretive strengths, allowing him to showcase emotional depth and vocal control without going overboard.

Stylistically, the song was a powerful and emotionally stirring anthem. The high notes in the chorus felt like they could shoot straight from the eardrum to the crown of the head—perfect for creating impact in a live setting.

In contrast, Lin Xiao chose a sorrowful ballad that didn’t suit his age. With his limited life experience, he couldn’t capture the song’s deeper sentiments. It came off as someone “pretending to be sad just to write new lyrics”—technically well-sung, but emotionally flat, like a textbook performance.

First battle round: Lin Xiao’s challenge ended in failure.

Zhao Yifeng: Remains in Class A

Lin Xiao: Drops to Class B

[Zhao Yifeng really has something going for him]

[Who started that rumor that Zhao Yifeng is terrible live?]

[Anyone who’s heard his commercial live gigs knows that talk is nonsense]

[Good thing Lin Xiao didn’t challenge Xu An, or the loss would’ve been even worse]

[My poor An-baby’s stage, 5555]

In the next two battle rounds:

Mo Li challenged Qin Xu, the Chinese-Thai mixed-race contestant.

Qu Junwei chose Cheng Jinghao, who had the weakest overall skills.

Both challengers won and were promoted to Class A.

The defeated contestants dropped to Class B.

At this point, the initial stage evaluation of “Climbing to Stardom” had officially concluded. All 101 trainees had completed their rankings.

The list of Class A members was finalized—

Su Junzhe, Xu An, Yu Yizhen, Zhao Yifeng, Jin Xiheng, Mo Li, and Qu Junwei.

Lai Yudong only had no impression of Su Junzhe.

Su Junzhe had been the first trainee to enter Class A before Lai Yudong transmigrated. His specific position was unclear, and barely anyone on the bullet comments had mentioned him. But based on two clues—Lin Xiao called for top vocalists and he didn’t raise his hand, and when someone suggested he might be a rapper, others couldn’t recall him either—it could be inferred that he was either the main dancer, or an all-rounder ace who shared the spotlight in all aspects.

The second person to enter Class A had been Xu An, so Lai Yudong had seen most of the initial performances live, only missing a handful that happened before Xu An went on stage.

Lai Yudong let out a sleepy yawn.

Who made it into Class A didn’t matter.

Whether he had seen all the performances didn’t matter either.

What really mattered was that the filming was over and he could finally go home and sleep.

His colored contacts were unbearably uncomfortable—his eyes were about to dry out completely.

But he forgot that most variety shows included pre-show interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, and post-show wrap-ups.

…

[Just switched back from the interview room next door—is it Yuki’s turn now?]

[Yuki! Mommy’s here!]

[This close-up shot is insane prprpr]

[Missed Miura Yuki’s performance just now—only saw a few of his reaction shots from the director’s cuts. He’s really good-looking, but how’s his actual skill?]

[He’s got the looks and the skill]

[As long as he doesn’t sing or dance, that face can do anything]

Lai Yudong sat in the interview room looking utterly dead inside.

Between the staff member sitting across from him, the camera pointed straight at his face, and the bullet comments randomly calling out his stage name for no reason—his eyelids wouldn’t stop twitching.

In a way, this was even scarier than getting on stage to sing and dance.

“How do you think you did in your initial performance?”

The staff went straight in with a sharp question right from the script. If it had been someone else, it might’ve been a test of emotional intelligence—how to balance confidence with humility. But for Lai Yudong, it meant facing the cold, hard truth head-on. Thankfully, he’d already endured Li Ke’s ruthless critique.

Lai Yudong answered immediately:

“It was a disaster.”

His pronunciation was way too precise—thanks to his background in broadcast hosting, he couldn’t shake the habit overnight. For sentences longer than a few words, he had to deliberately slur his speech to avoid giving himself away. The sticky, soft tone created a strange dissonance with his appearance.

[So honest, baby]

[Can we borrow a bit of that self-awareness for those trainees who bombed but still think they’re slaying?]

[+1. At least he’s good-looking.]

[Yuki’s voice sounds so soft and squishy lolol]

Maybe reminded of a funny moment, the staff smiled kindly and moved on:

“Next question—who do you think had the best performance on the initial stage?”

“Mo Li,” Lai Yudong said without hesitation.

Though quite a few trainees had impressive showings—like Jin Xiheng, the top dancer, and Xu An, the top vocalist—they both had clear weaknesses. Jin Xiheng had the typical “loud, unrefined voice” of a pure dancer, while Xu An admitted he’d only trained in dance for three months before joining the show.

So, in terms of well-rounded strength, there was only one top choice.

[There’s too much Mo Li content in this segment]

[Can someone count how many times Mo Li’s been name-dropped already? LOL]

The staff followed up naturally: “What’s your impression of Mo Li?”

Lai Yudong blurted out: “Awesome.”

Staff: “What’s your impression of Zhao Yifeng?”

Lai Yudong: “Awesome.”

Staff: “And Jiang Yangfan?”

Lai Yudong: “Awesome.”

“…What about Xu An?” The staff, clearly spooked by the third “awesome” in a row, added cautiously, “Anything other than ‘awesome’ maybe?”

Lai Yudong tentatively offered, “Better than me?”

Staff: “……”

[One-word-fits-all strategy LOL]

[This is his entire vocabulary]

[What’s this kid’s education background? I’m scared I accidentally picked a fish that escaped the net*]

Lai Yudong’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

Sure, he wasn’t some double master’s degree graduate from a top 50 university in the world.

But at least he’d been admitted to a proper, accredited university— one you could find on the official list from the Ministry of Education!

What “a fish that escaped the net”?! Just because he didn’t dare speak up didn’t mean he was dumb!

System: [Host, you’re already demonstrating the awareness required of a public figure.]

Lai Yudong: [Can I mute you too?]

After checking off the list of both popular and controversial contestants, the staff finally stopped asking specific “impression” questions.

Lai Yudong quietly let out a breath of relief. His thin skin couldn’t take much more of this “playing dumb” routine.

“Who do you think is the best-looking trainee?”

“Uh… Qu, Qu Xincheng…?”

“Which initial performance do you think was the best?”

“They were all great.”

“Who are you most optimistic about?”

“Everyone who works hard.”

“What’s your prediction for your own ranking in the first round?”

Lai Yudong gave the question some serious thought—this was the first time he hadn’t answered instantly. Dozens of faces and their initial stage performances flashed rapidly through his mind. The number of trainees clearly weaker than him? Barely a handful.

After some careful deduction, he gave a conservative answer:

“Eighty.”

[Eighty? For real??]

[Bro… at least go with 55.]

[Why 55?]

[Top 55 advance to the second round.]

[Is the voting open yet? What’s Yuki’s current ranking?]

[It’s open, but no updates yet.]

The staff pressed further: “Why do you think you’ll rank 80th?”

Based on the staff’s reaction and the live comments, Lai Yudong thought he’d misspoken again—this time by aiming too high. He instinctively wanted to explain, but was terrified a longer sentence might blow his cover.

So he forced out a vague, mumbled response: “Maybe… I was too confident.”

And honestly, looking back, it did feel ridiculous.

After watching so many skilled trainees, how was he still floating in a daze, thinking he had a shot? Some people may have fumbled their initial performance due to nerves, sure—but at least they had training. They’d worked hard for this. Meanwhile, he was a total amateur with zero foundation in singing or dancing—a complete freeloader by comparison.

It had to be the green-mode bullet comments being too nice that gave him this false sense of confidence.

If it weren’t for them, he would’ve been roasted awake long ago.

Help.

The more he thought about it, the worse it sounded.

He was about to break out in a cold sweat.

Was it too late to take it back and say something else?!

[What did the hottie say? There were no subtitles—I couldn’t catch it]

[He said he was too confident]

[??? His kind of confidence is built different]

[I almost thought he said eighth place]

[I don’t think Miura Yuki’s popularity will be low]

[For sure. Just look at the bullet chat—tons of discussion about him]

Lai Yudong: …?

That… wasn’t the reaction he expected?

Clearly, the audience had far more faith in his ranking than he did himself.

If it weren’t for the green mode he’d enabled, Lai Yudong would’ve started to suspect his agency had hired bots to hype him up online—

The only reason he didn’t suspect the system was because that shady thing had sworn up and down: “Fair competition only—no backstage manipulation!”

Still, he quickly came up with a more reasonable explanation:

A lot of people must have missed the livestream or skipped his performance, so this was just based on looks alone.

As an excellent student from the broadcasting department, he had at least a bit of confidence in his on-camera presence.

After surviving a barrage of exhausting questions, Lai Yudong was finally released from the interview room. His legs were weak as he stumbled out, and only once he was away from any cameras did he let out a huge sigh of relief.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a brown-haired boy moving at almost the exact same pace as him. His name quickly flashed through Lai Yudong’s mind:

Liang Zhisheng.

Liang Zhisheng was standing at the entrance of another interview room, looking like he’d just finished his own post-show Q&A. He all but had “emotionally drained” written across his face.

Noticing the glance from beside him, he turned his head and offered a gentle smile as their eyes met: “Finished?”

Lai Yudong nodded.

“Did they ask you any especially tricky questions?”

Liang Zhisheng struck up a conversation naturally, his voice as soft and pleasant as a spring breeze, as if they were old friends catching up after a long time.

Lai Yudong shook his head.

“Good,” Liang Zhisheng replied. “I was worried you’d go off and say something silly again.”

He was referring to that unexpectedly bold “scripted” comment from earlier. After staring at Lai Yudong for a few seconds, Liang Zhisheng added, sounding puzzled, “You really don’t talk much, huh?”

“?” Lai Yudong tilted his head in confusion.

“Even if your Chinese isn’t that good, you should still try to speak more. If you stay quiet all the time, you won’t get much screen time. If you want to last a few more rounds, it’s best to make an effort to socialize a bit.”

“…Eh?”

Lai Yudong’s eyes widened slightly. The unexpected kindness in the advice left him momentarily stunned.

He’d heard plenty of rumors about the entertainment industry—the backstabbing, the shady deals, the stolen center positions, the drama over screen time…

But reality? It didn’t quite match the cutthroat boy group survival show he’d imagined.

First Xu An, now Liang Zhisheng, and even that chatterbox Liu Qichu—each of them had been genuinely kind and sincere, making him feel unexpectedly at ease.

If all the other trainees were like this, then… that would be wonderful.

Lai Yudong couldn’t exactly explain why his responses were always so short and blunt, like someone operating under a strict word limit, or why he often relied on gestures instead of speech. So, he simply returned a warm, heartfelt smile.

“Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Liang Zhisheng chuckled lightly, giving Lai Yudong’s shoulder a friendly pat.

“Come on—let’s head back to the studio together.”

<< _ >>

**TN

A fish that escaped the net – one who missed the Nine-year Compulsory Education; one who lacks common sense. It’s often used jokingly to mock those who are not well-educated and are found with spelling mistakes from time to time, especially those in showbiz.