Trainee Ch.16

Chapter 16: Theme Song (3)

Lai Yudong let out a long sigh as he left the dorm.

The so-called “early bird catches the worm” wasn’t about some brilliant plan to turn the tide—if he had that kind of skill, he wouldn’t be this worried. It was simply about getting familiar with the theme song and memorizing the lyrics.

At the moment, his capabilities were very limited. Whether or not the production team would release the lyrics separately, memorizing them in advance to save time during practice could only be a good thing.

That was why he had gone out of his way to fetch the pen and paper included in the “beginner’s starter pack.” He hadn’t expected Liang Zhisheng to skip dinner and head straight to the dorm for a nap, leading to an unavoidable one-on-one interaction in front of the cameras.

Fortunately, he had already gotten used to communicating normally under his new persona. Nothing went wrong during the conversation—though the barrage of comments complained that he spoke too little.

[Question: In that 707 dorm conversation, how many words did Yuki say in total?]

[I bet it wasn’t more than ten.]

[I counted—excluding interjections, it was twelve.]

[My god, how did I end up falling for a little mute.]

[I want Yuzu to be silent on stage, not in daily life.]

[+1. With a voice that nice, he should talk more.]

Lai Yudong: …

Never mind everything else—has “Yuzu” become his default nickname now?

The practice rooms were located on the third floor, consisting of one large studio and four smaller ones. The smaller rooms were used for divided theme song training sessions.

There were quite a few trainees coming and going at this hour. In order to avoid spending an awkward dozen or so seconds with someone in the elevator, Lai Yudong wisely chose to take the stairs.

But man plans, and the heavens laugh—someone happened to be coming toward him at the landing between the third and fourth floors.

Lai Yudong had a good memory—he immediately recognized the face he’d only seen once or twice before. It was Zeng Kai, an F-class trainee who had been standing next to Liu Qichu during roll call.

The other boy had likely just come up from the second floor after dinner, which suggested that his dorm wasn’t on a high floor.

Whether out of politeness or the camaraderie of being classmates, it was hard to avoid exchanging a greeting when you bumped into someone head-on in a narrow stairwell.

In situations like this, there were usually three foolproof go-to responses: a simple “Hi”, “Have you eaten?”, or a polite, mildly surprised smile.

But reality didn’t give Lai Yudong the chance to choose. Before the corner of his mouth could even lift into a smile, Zeng Kai passed right by him without so much as a glance.

“……”

Lai Yudong paused, caught off guard, and awkwardly froze in place.

He slowly withdrew his half-formed smile and turned his head to look back. Zeng Kai had already turned the corner to the fourth floor, leaving him standing there alone, puzzled.

What just happened? Am I invisible now?

He glanced around thoughtfully and, as expected, confirmed that there were no cameras in sight.

…A complicated feeling welled up inside him—one of those you didn’t even know where to begin unpacking.

Lai Yudong let out a silent sigh in his heart.

Though he couldn’t say for sure whether Zeng Kai was deliberately giving him the cold shoulder or just acted this way with everyone, purely judging by the behavior—it didn’t bode well. If someone was already showing two faces on and off camera before even debuting, they probably weren’t cut out for higher positions.

But then again, this wasn’t something someone like him—who might not even survive the first round—should be worrying about.

Setting the trivial encounter aside, Lai Yudong continued up the stairs to the third floor. As expected, he wasn’t the only trainee trying to get a head start. Just as he stepped into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of the back of a B-class member in the distance.

There was no need to see the person’s face—just the trendy milk-tea ash-brown hair color was enough to confirm that it was definitely Jiang Yangfan.

Jiang Yangfan pushed open the door to the practice room. The theme song’s melody spilled out through the gap, but he quickly stepped inside, cutting the music off as the door closed behind him. The hallway returned to silence.

So it seemed he wasn’t the first to arrive—there were already others inside.

This realization only deepened Lai Yudong’s gloom.

He walked past the practice room doors for Classes A, B, and C. Their nameplates were marked with bright, vibrant colors—but when he reached Class F, it was a stark black letter printed plainly on the sign. The visual contrast almost seemed to foretell the very different fates of each class.

He took a deep breath and carefully pushed open the F-class door, afraid of disturbing any trainees already studying the theme song inside.

Creak—

[Whoa, someone finally showed up!]

[I’ve been guarding this empty—cough, lonely—stream room for ages.]

[Knew it! I bet on the right person. Yuki really was the first to arrive. 233]

Lai Yudong: “……”

He had overthought it.

Then again, it made sense—he was probably the only one from F-class who had eaten breakfast.

Staring at the empty practice room, with only the mirrored wall reflecting his lone figure, Lai Yudong suddenly felt the desolate solitude of a man landing on an uninhabited island.

It might’ve been an exaggeration, but still—when he thought about how the twenty-member B-class next door already had at least two people present, while he was greeted by nothing but a flood of bullet comments and an empty room—the contrast made him feel even less optimistic about the upcoming theme song evaluation.

Looking on the bright side, though, this was exactly the kind of situation he had hoped for.

At the very least, no one could see what he was doing.

Lai Yudong picked up the tablet resting on the seat in front of the electronic keyboard. Without drawing attention, he scanned the room to note the positions of the cameras, then quietly settled against the wall in a spot safely out of their line of sight.

He couldn’t let anyone see how fluidly he wrote.

Back in the main hall, when he’d first heard “To the Stars,” Lai Yudong had skimmed over the lyrics. The chorus, paired with its maddeningly catchy melody, was easy to remember—one or two listens and it stuck. The trickier parts were the verses; with lyrics that lacked strong cohesion, it was easy to get lines mixed up.

Seemed like all theme songs followed the same pattern.

They’d string together motivational buzzwords like “dreams,” “hard work,” “applause,” “youth,” “miracles”—a mishmash of phrases like “unstoppable” one moment and “all-out effort” the next. Then they’d throw in a few English lines at the end for that pseudo-cool, international flair no one really cared about. The lyricism wasn’t much better than the average viral short-form video song.

But as for whether it was hard to memorize? Not really. In fact, he thought it was easier than having to fully recite “Memorial to the Throne” from memory the day after learning it in high school.

As the saying goes, “The palest ink is better than the best memory”—and having both certainly didn’t hurt. Lai Yudong copied the lyrics in full into his notebook, and by the end of it, he’d more or less committed them to memory.

He tried humming a few lines of the chorus:

“To the stars. To the stars.

Never backing down, full speed to the top.

To the stars. To the stars.

Never giving up, our dreams shine like stars…”

[Yuki’s humming was actually not bad!]

[That’s because he dropped the key—he lowered it by 8 whole steps.]

Wait, seriously? He dropped the key?

Lai Yudong, still half-doubting, rewound the track and listened again. The moment the original vocalist’s voice rang out, he fell into silence. If his ears weren’t deceiving him, then yeah… the difference really was kind of huge.

Looking on the bright side, at least he could hear the gap. That meant he was still salvageable… probably.

Bang—

Suddenly, the door to the practice room was briskly pushed open. Lai Yudong looked up and quickly closed his notebook.

To his surprise, it wasn’t another F-class trainee who entered—it was Su Junzhe from Class A.

The one bullet comments had crowned the ultimate career-driven overachiever.

[Xiao Su, you’re in the wrong room! This is Class F!]

[Wasn’t Su Junzhe the first trainee to get an A on the initial stage?]

[A dancing king with little brother vibes~]

Su Junzhe had a soft, adorable look. His refined stage-ready makeup, paired with carefully styled chocolate-brown Japanese wool curls, gave him a slightly languid charm.

Since the uniform couldn’t be changed, he’d clearly focused on the details—silver earrings shimmered under the lights, and his black sneakers were laced with one neon orange and one neon blue shoelace, creating a “see the shoelaces before the person” kind of effect.

Altogether, he gave off the impression of a sweet-yet-cool next-door little brother.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you?” he asked.

Lai Yudong shook his head like a rattle-drum. “No.”

“Great!” Su Junzhe bounced over like a little lamb. He crouched in front of Lai Yudong, his eyes naturally curved with a cheerful smile. “Do you mind if I practice here?”

“Here?” Lai Yudong asked, startled.

“Mhm,” Su Junzhe nodded. “A-class has a few people rehearsing choreography and vocals at the same time. Everyone’s doing their own thing—it’s a bit chaotic. So I snuck out to see how the other classes are doing.” He cupped his face in his hands. “B and C are a bit quieter. F-class only has you. I wanted a peaceful space with fewer distractions, so I was hoping to stay here for a bit.”

Lai Yudong immediately caught the key detail: “A-class has a lot of people?”

“Hmm, not that many,” Su Junzhe said, counting on his fingers. “Yu Yizhen, Qu Junwei, Mo Li… including me, that’s four people.”

Four people. It didn’t sound like much at first.

But A-class only had seven people total—that’s more than half!

This bit of insider info from A-class made Lai Yudong’s head throb. He snuck a glance at Su Junzhe, now seated beside him. The other boy had already slipped into study mode, casually mimicking the hand movements from the dance tutorial video with practiced ease.

He looked so at ease, it didn’t even seem like he needed a dance instructor.

Oh, right—Liu Qichu had mentioned that Su Junzhe was A-class’s main dance ace. He’d even promised to help teach him the choreography.

Lai Yudong’s eyes lit up. He was just about to ask Su Junzhe for some guidance—but stopped himself the moment he opened his mouth.

Just because Su Junzhe agreed to help Liu Qichu didn’t mean he was obligated to help him. Besides, he hadn’t even accepted the invitation to move into Room 706. Asking out of the blue would just be imposing—and risk dragging the other down, wasting their practice time.

Su Junzhe had clearly come to the practice room early for a reason: to master the choreography as quickly as possible. If he had to stop and coach someone else, wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?

Still, Lai Yudong’s own learning method was painfully inefficient. He’d probably be able to memorize the lyrics after a few more listens—but then what? He had no idea how to use the rest of his time effectively. It was like a snail setting off an hour early, only to still lose the race to a rabbit who just woke up… never mind if the rabbit and the snail started at the same time.

He didn’t actually need someone to teach him step by step—as long as Su Junzhe was willing to serve as a living reference, Lai Yudong could silently observe and learn like an old-school study companion trailing behind a young master.

That’s if Su Junzhe was okay with being the model. The guy had said he came to the F-class room for some peace and quiet—not to get distracted by someone whose dancing was more like slapstick comedy than choreography.

Still… maybe if he kept a little distance, it’d be fine?

The room was big enough—they could stand on opposite ends.

The more Lai Yudong thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. He turned his head and opened his mouth to ask, only to once again be caught by the invisible leash of his fake “overseas contestant” identity.

Wait—he needed time to think. How should he phrase it?

From a viewer’s perspective, the pale blond boy was opening and closing his mouth several times, but for some reason, not making a sound.

[Is Yuki’s mic broken?]

[What if… he’s just not saying anything?]

[Help, why is he hesitating so much! Is his ‘cool guy aura’ just a cover for extreme social anxiety? LOL]

[Me fr. He’s literally me with stage fright www]

Lai Yudong: “……”

I am foreigner.

From “cold and aloof heartthrob” to “mute introvert with anxiety”—maybe that was a kind of evolution.

Even Su Junzhe noticed something was off. He tilted his head curiously. “What’s wrong?”

“C-Can you teach me?” Lai Yudong nearly bit his tongue. Afraid of being misunderstood, he quickly added, “I just want to watch, you don’t have to do anything.”

“……”

Su Junzhe’s lips dipped ever so slightly, and his eyes widened just a little—like he was trying to pass off a flicker of emotion as simple surprise.

The next second, he broke into a sweet, cheerful smile. “Sure! Let me finish watching this run-through first.”

Faced with such an easygoing yes, Lai Yudong hesitated.

Was it just his imagination…

Or did Su Junzhe not seem all that enthusiastic?

<< _ >>

**TN

Yuki (佑树/ Youshu) – could be read as Yuki in Japanese, though it’s more Chinese in style, and “Yuki” is just how it’s being interpreted phonetically.

Yuzu (柚子) – is a type of citrus fruit native to East Asia—tart and aromatic, like a cross between a lemon and a mandarin. As a nickname, Yuzu is often used affectionately (e.g. for someone named Yuzuki, Yuzuru, or even just because they’re associated with something sweet or cute).