Trainee Ch.18

Chapter 18: Theme Song (5)

They had missed the lunch rush, so the cafeteria was nearly empty. Just as Lai Yudong was about to enjoy the peace and quiet, a more brutal reality shattered his mental defenses.

Carrying his tray, he did a lap around the food counter, only to discover in despair that lunch was just as bland as breakfast.

He could accept a light breakfast—it wasn’t exactly the right time for greasy food early in the morning—but he hadn’t expected lunch to be the same. Looking around, nearly everything was either steamed, boiled, or cold-dressed, all cooked with minimal oil, salt, and no spice. The only exception was braised tofu, and there wasn’t a single deep-fried item in sight.

At a glance, the dishes looked decent and fairly diverse. He didn’t mind light flavors in general, but if he had to eat this kind of food every day and wasn’t even allowed to order takeout, he might actually lose it.

Lai Yudong suddenly really missed his university cafeteria.

Especially that stall on the second floor where the lunch lady would always give him a few extra pieces of chicken in the spicy diced chicken rice.

Well, this was a show for training idols—he should probably be grateful it wasn’t just weight-loss meal preps and protein shakes.

He ended up getting a portion of stir-fried lotus root, steamed pork ribs with pumpkin, and a bowl of winter melon and corn soup. As he sat down with his tray, his peripheral vision caught Su Junzhe at the next table, and his eyes widened in shock at the man’s ultra-healthy meal.

—A bowl of chicken breast, a vegetable salad, and a glass of iced Americano.

Wasn’t that a bit too simple?

Wouldn’t he pass out from hunger?

Lai Yudong recalled that Su Junzhe had eaten similarly at breakfast too—just a banana and a glass of iced Americano. He wasn’t sure if this was just a personal habit, or if all Korean trainees were this strict.

He couldn’t imagine putting himself through that kind of physical and mental torture. Just the thought of having iced Americano for every meal was enough to kill him. To him, unsweetened black coffee over ice was basically the same as a bowl of traditional Chinese medicine with ice cubes.

The gaze from the next table was too intense. Su Junzhe turned his head in confusion, his eyes round and clear like black grapes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Lai Yudong opened his mouth slightly: “…”

[Why do you keep opening your mouth but never say anything www]

[When I stare a little too long at a classmate and end up getting talked to: yuzu.jpg]

[Please understand, this is how social anxiety works]

[Please understand, this is how aloof types act]

[Suggestion: open a poll on the forum]

Before him were two options: respond and engage, or pretend nothing was wrong. Torn between the two, Lai Yudong suddenly recalled Liang Zhisheng’s advice—

“If you don’t speak much, it’s easy to get no screen time. If you want to stay around for a few more rounds, you’d better try to socialize.”

To be honest, he’d been thinking about this all along, but his overly cautious personality had kept him from acting on it.

Now the situation reminded him it was something he had to factor in.

Although Lai Yudong didn’t know much about survival shows, given how variety shows work and his observations of the comment barrage, it wasn’t hard to analyze his current situation and where it was headed.

If, in three days, he was unlucky enough to end up in Class F again, even the chance to survive by just “showing face” might be gone.

No matter how disastrous his performance of the theme song turned out, at least the camera would still catch him. Exposure was the only way to be noticed. Even good wine fears a deep alley—let alone someone saddled with both “no skills” and “socially withdrawn” debuffs. Most likely, he’d vanish without a trace.

By that point, forcing himself to turn on “social mode” just to attract attention would feel like a desperate attempt to revive a lost cause.

Unless, of course, he did something outrageous enough to blow up the entire internet.

But unless he was truly desperate, he didn’t want to take the “infamous before famous” route. He wasn’t a professional, didn’t have a marketing team behind him, and the chances of gaining popularity through controversy and then turning it around to rise to stardom were slim. More likely, he’d just be eliminated in the next round and forgotten.

Therefore, the conclusion was: strike at the right moment.

And if he accidentally slipped up… he could always fall back on his “foreign trainee who doesn’t understand Chinese” persona—

That should work, right?

Only two seconds had passed in real time, but Lai Yudong’s mind had already raced through all the possibilities, laying out even his backup plan. There was no reason for him to keep shrinking back like some nervous exchange student who’d just learned basic Mandarin.

Lying to others was one thing—no need to lie to himself too.

So, he immediately condensed his question into the simplest sentence possible:

“Is it always that little?”

[I was wondering the same thing.]

[Susu’s entire daily food intake wouldn’t even fill the gap between my teeth.]

[Can you really get full on that? Aren’t they dancing all day too?]

Su Junzhe picked up a piece of chicken breast. “I’m dieting. I ate too well back home and gained some weight.”

Lai Yudong was even more surprised. “Dieting?”

The other’s slim figure couldn’t look less related to the word “fat.” If he got any thinner, he’d be a piece of paper.

“I have a round face—still got a bit of baby fat. It makes me look chubby on camera. Plus, I gain weight easily and tend to retain water. If I don’t control my diet, my face turns into a steamed bun on screen,” Su Junzhe explained. “It’s fine for regular people, but idols have to manage their figure. Honestly, I really envy people who can eat a lot and not gain weight.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Mmm, it’s okay, not a big deal.” Su Junzhe raised his iced Americano and gave it a shake, the clinking of ice cubes ringing out crisply. “Anti-bloating miracle and appetite suppressant—must-have for dieting.”

Then he pointed at his vegetable salad. “There’s even Thousand Island dressing in it. When I was a trainee in Korea, they wouldn’t even give us dressing—the calorie count was too high.”

Lai Yudong: “…”

He couldn’t help but worry about potential stomach issues.

[At first I thought Miura was eating too little, but now that I see this comparison, his meal looks pretty rich.]

[Yuki: the ribs in my hand trembled slightly.]

[He probably feels guilty eating now lol]

Even though Su Junzhe’s meal plan made him concerned for the guy’s health, Lai Yudong didn’t really have anything to say except a silent kind of admiration. Having the discipline to stick with something like that was impressive in itself. As for him—he definitely didn’t have that kind of willpower.

Since he couldn’t keep up in the diet department, he’d just have to work harder in other areas.

Lai Yudong opened his notebook on the table. Bold, steady handwriting filled both pages.

His goal was to memorize all the lyrics before class started.

…

It wasn’t until the class began at 1 p.m. that Lai Yudong fully realized just how helpful it had been for this slow bird to start flapping its wings early.

Class was held in the largest practice room on the third floor. Despite its size, even with over a hundred students inside, it didn’t feel crowded. But there was only one instructor for this big class—no way they could give personal attention to everyone, and definitely not slow things down just for one person who couldn’t keep up.

To quote that classic line every teacher has used to guilt-trip their students:

“If one person wastes a minute, 101 people waste 101 minutes.”

In other words, that’s two full lessons gone to waste.

So if your fundamentals were poor and you fell behind, your only options were:

Observe what others were doing and try to catch up silently, or

Wait until after class to sort yourself out.

And if you were in Class F, odds were you’d only be left with option two.

That’s where the benefits of previewing came into play.

Although he couldn’t match the rocket-speed learning pace of the dance leads, among the flailing, frantic trainees of Class F, Lai Yudong actually seemed a little more composed. His dance moves, while still far from perfect, were good enough that some desperate trainees even started using him as a reference, sneaking glances his way. Before long, a small circle had formed around him, unintentionally turning him into the center of a mini study group.

This sudden “honor student” treatment left Lai Yudong feeling both flattered and terrified. He seriously wanted to warn these overly optimistic trainees that copying everything from someone else would only lead them astray.

He’d already seen people in the bullet comments complaining about “mass-produced robots”!

But soon, Lai Yudong realized that the biggest issue wasn’t how accurate his moves were—it was that he simply couldn’t keep up with the real-time tempo.

Dancing at slow speed had lulled him into a false sense of security, making him think he could handle full speed no problem. But once they actually sped things up, it became clear that wasn’t the case at all.

His limbs were like a steering wheel that had suddenly gone rogue—sometimes his feet would move but his arms wouldn’t, sometimes his arms and legs weren’t even on the same beat, and sometimes he’d start out just a half-beat behind but gradually lag more and more until he slowed down to a pace that was comfortably out of sync.

No matter which of these happened, the moment he tried to fix it, things would only get worse. His already fragile rhythm would completely collapse, and he’d freeze mid-move, brain short-circuiting while his body stood helpless, weighed down by frustration and powerlessness.

Classic case of “the mind remembers, but the body doesn’t.”

This torment dragged on for quite a while, until the dance instructor finally led everyone through the entire theme song choreography from start to finish. At last, the long lesson was coming to an end.

The hours of high-intensity practice had left many trainees completely drained. Xu An collapsed to the floor in a daze right after finishing, Song Yanxi slumped against the wall, staring blankly, and Liu Qichu kept tugging at his shirt collar, fanning himself nonstop.

Some had even abandoned any concern for their image, lying on the ground spread-eagle like gingerbread men on a baking tray.

Lai Yudong wiped the sweat sliding down his cheek with the back of his hand, breathing slightly heavier as he tried to steady himself. Thankfully, he had a regular exercise routine—this level of intensity was still within his tolerable range. Otherwise, he’d probably wake up tomorrow with legs so sore he wouldn’t be able to move.

Just when he thought he had finally survived the torment of dance class, reality hit him with a ruthless blow.

“—Good work, everyone. But we’re not done yet.”

Dance instructor Cao Yan’s voice rang out through the microphone, reaching every corner of the practice room, bringing with it a chilling announcement:

“Let’s check your progress. Each class will take turns performing the theme song. Once you’re done, you’re dismissed.”

“Right now…?”

“You’re kidding, right!? I don’t even know the full routine yet!”

“Has anyone here actually learned it? Can someone stand in front of me when we go up?”

The once lifeless room instantly erupted in wails and groans. Those who had been lying flat on the floor now stretched their arms tremulously toward the ceiling, resembling zombies rising from the dead.

[Resident Evil vibes (lmao)]

[The smart ones are already clinging to the strong dancers hhhh]

[Who’s getting clung to?]

[It’s our very own main vocal, Zhao Yifeng~]

[Bringing up “main vocal” at a time like this kinda sounds like you’re rubbing it in…]

Cao Yan continued, “Class A, you’re up first. Show everyone how it’s done.”

The moment those words left his mouth, two members of Class A had expressions that were… unforgettable. One looked like his face had been contorted in agony, the other like all life had drained from his body. At their core, both were the embodiment of despair.

Among the ultra-confident Class A trainees, these two stood out like sore thumbs.

Zhao Yifeng and Xu An—both top students who excelled in only one area and couldn’t dance to save their lives—shared a look in that moment, a silent bond forged through mutual suffering. They had truly become brothers in misery.

[Help! The expressions on the main vocal line are too funny hahahahaha]

[I can’t hold it together after that close-up]

[Zhao Yifeng: I’ll kill you all. Xu An: Just kill me.]

Lai Yudong gently rubbed his pulsing temples with his fingertips. That same tension from the first performance stage came flooding back. The good news: Class A had to go first. The bad news: he could only delay the inevitable.

“Um…” Someone poked him with a finger.

“?”

Lai Yudong turned his head—and met a pair of eyes that looked at him like he was a life raft in a storm. The other trainee’s voice was desperate and pleading:

“Can I stick with you?”

Lai Yudong: “…”

He really couldn’t help anyone.

However, watching Class A get herded into the center of the room like ducks to slaughter, and seeing the solo camera set up right in front of them, he started to waver. The temptation of camera time was hard to resist.

Even though he couldn’t perform the full theme song, and would most likely end up as background comedic relief again, considering the overall level of Class F, everyone was basically a punchline in the making. Suffering a social death together somehow didn’t feel as humiliating.

Besides, not learning it in such a short time was totally understandable—no audience would judge too harshly. At most, it’d just be played for laughs.

All things considered, he might as well move as far forward as he could.

The closer to the front, the more likely to be seen.

Having weighed all the pros and cons, Lai Yudong took a deep breath and said slowly,

“I can give it a try.”

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