Chapter 20.1: Theme Song (7)
[The accuracy rate goes up as soon as the chorus hits, lololol]
[Very few people actually look good doing it. Most look like they’re firing laser beams.]
[Yuki’s moves here are actually pretty nice!]
[He looks best when he’s not moving.]
[Cool guy’s standing too far to the side—I can’t see clearly.]
At the edge of the screen, a refined-looking young man with creamy golden-blonde hair danced in time with the music. His movements were stiff but precise, and his appearance naturally drew attention. One didn’t know whether to look above or below the neck—his stunning features and rigid body language perfectly embodied the saying: Heaven is fair.
But then he smiled.
That smile bloomed like snow melting in the warmth of early spring, glittering radiantly under the sun.
In an instant, all uncertain gazes were forcibly pulled toward that exquisite face.
The pale-haired boy overlapped his hands, revealing his distinct, well-defined wrists. His fingers unfurled outward with elegant grace—the hand movements symbolizing “starlight shining” aligned not only with the lyrics of the theme song, but also with his own dazzling presence.
—“I’m your only star.”
Such a simple smile, and yet it was the perfect definition of diamond-framed beauty.
[Did no one notice Yuki’s expression?? Holy crap! I’m diving headfirst into this fandom!!!]
[Oh my god, Yuki’s smile is so beautiful.]
[Wait, what? What did I miss??]
[My baby is too cute. Seriously, just amazing… T^T]
[Please, I’m begging everyone to vote for Miura Yuki. If this gorgeous boy gets eliminated in the first round, I’ll have a breakdown.]
Lai Yudong hadn’t expected a casual expression to stir up such a frenzied reaction in the bullet comments. Half-understanding, he wondered if this was what they called “facial expression control.”
Looks like he wasn’t wrong—mastering facial expressions really was important.
But right now, the problem wasn’t the details. It was that he hadn’t grasped the entire song.
After regaining the rhythm, Lai Yudong stopped obsessing over the endless beat counts. That one line of lyrics he had managed to match gave him a new idea—since he was clueless about counting beats, why not try following the music directly?
Before class started, he had already memorized all the lyrics and melody. Compared to the chaotic mess of beat counts, that was far easier.
The idea was solid—and the results weren’t bad either.
Even though his timing wasn’t precise, like a beginner playing a high-difficulty song in Taiko no Tatsujin, getting mostly bad and good hits, with the occasional miss, and a rare perfect only when luck struck—he was still scoring. At least he wasn’t failing the game by missing too much.
Unfortunately, the good run didn’t last long.
Lai Yudong wasn’t familiar enough with the theme song. No matter how good his memory was, there was no way he could fully memorize a four-minute choreography in such a short time. The further along it got, the more he struggled. He barely made it through the entire dance by relying on fuzzy memory and some improvised movements.
His accuracy was probably only sixty to seventy percent.
Even so, the fact that he could dance the whole routine without stopping already put him ahead of most of the F-Class. Many hadn’t learned it well enough or simply blanked out mid-way and ended up just standing there, frozen like they were being punished.
If it weren’t inappropriate to speak up, he would’ve told them to move. Even random flailing would be better.
Not learning it and having a bad attitude were two different things.
They’d all get scolded, sure—but the ones with the bad attitude would definitely get it worse.
When the music ended, the classroom fell into dead silence.
“You all…” Dance instructor Cao Yan rubbed his temples, momentarily speechless from the chaotic mess in front of him. “I don’t even know how to describe your attitude.”
[Sisters, I’m logging off first. I’ll come back after the scolding is over.]
[I can no longer protect them. Good luck, everyone.]
[I bear the courage to fly—I’ll carry my burdens alone.]
[You guys are so heartless, lol.]
The light-hearted mood in the livestream only made Lai Yudong more anxious. He swallowed nervously, bracing himself for the sharp critique he knew was coming.
“I already knew F-Class had a weak foundation, and I’ve lowered my expectations accordingly—but you all still managed to do worse than expected.” Cao Yan paused, then raised his voice sharply and let loose: “I couldn’t even find two people doing the same movements! And so many of you just stood there doing nothing. What? Are you here to train for a military parade? If you forget the choreography on stage, are you just going to stand there like statues too? You won’t even try to move?”
—Prediction: confirmed.
Lai Yudong didn’t know dance, but in some ways, it was similar to broadcasting and hosting.
For example, in impromptu speaking during entrance exams, forgetting your words and freezing mid-sentence was absolutely forbidden. Looking helplessly at the judges was a huge mistake—you had to rely on quick thinking and on-the-spot improvisation to save yourself.
Cao Yan continued scolding, “If you keep going like this, you’ll stay in F-Class during the next evaluation too. What—do you think it’s fine because F-Class doesn’t get stage recordings anyway? That it doesn’t matter if you can’t learn it? You haven’t even debuted yet, and you’re already squandering your chances. Do you have any idea how many trainees can’t even secure one of the 101 spots in this show?!”
“……”
Complete silence.
[Feels like a flashback to being lectured by my high school homeroom teacher.]
[A few of the boys are crying from being scolded…]
[Tsk tsk. Dancing like that and you still have the nerve to cry? So weak-minded.]
[Let’s be kinder—they really are starting from a low baseline.]
[Is there anyone in F-Class who actually has a solid foundation? Why can some dance the whole routine, while others barely move at all?]
[Even if you threw Zhao Yifeng into F-Class, he’d be considered above average.]
Lai Yudong was stunned.
In the blink of an eye, the mood in the comment section had turned tense, like a fight was about to break out and get instantly wiped out by the stream’s green mode.
“Wang Yiwen,” Cao Yan suddenly called out a name, startling the person in question. “Don’t let others affect you. If you believe you’re doing it right, just keep going.”
Wang Yiwen froze for a moment, then belatedly realized this was a roundabout way of giving him positive feedback. “Yes, sir!”
“Pei Lan, your long arms and legs make your dancing look graceful, but if you don’t fully commit to the movements, you’ll come across as even more awkward than others.”
“Yes.”
“Liu Qichu, pay more attention to details. Many of your moves were just roughly sketched out—you simplified the choreography.”
“Understood. Thank you, teacher!”
“Miura Yuki.”
A familiar yet foreign name suddenly reached his ears. Lai Yudong looked toward the dance teacher in surprise—he hadn’t expected to be included in this part at all.
Along with anticipation came a spike of nervousness. He was afraid of getting completely torn apart.
Cao Yan’s tone was flat: “You pick up choreography quickly. The second half needs work. If you can’t find the beat, practice more.”
“Thank you, teacher.”
The feedback, though mixed, made Lai Yudong breathe a little easier. A sense of being recognized bloomed in his chest.
Criticism was inevitable—he didn’t mind. But just a small bit of praise was enough to prove that his efforts hadn’t been for nothing.
[I get it now. The ones who got called out are the ones doing okay.]
[A general among midgets.]
[If someone from F-Class actually debuts, this whole group is doomed.]
[You’re overthinking it. Whether a group makes it or not has never depended purely on skill.]
“Today’s lesson ends here. Dismissed.”
After announcing the end of class, Cao Yan left the practice room. But for a long while, no one else followed. Everyone silently and knowingly stayed behind to practice hard, even Su Junzhe—who normally disliked training with large groups—obediently remained.
Anyone who ran off right now was either wildly confident or completely clueless about reading the room.
Aside from the scattered sounds of footsteps, the space was filled with hushed voices asking for help.
Before long, several small teaching circles had formed in the classroom, each one centered around a trainee skilled in dance.
Lai Yudong shamelessly joined in to audit the lessons. His first stop was Jin Xiheng from Class A.
As a dance teacher himself, Jin Xiheng’s teaching style was similar to Cao Yan’s, but much gentler in tone. However, this came with a downside—his name carried weight, which attracted a crowd of students eager to learn. With so many people crowding in, it became just like a regular group lesson: hard to cater to individual progress and taught from the very beginning.
Lai Yudong had already studied the opening parts of the choreography in detail—there was no need to sit through yet another round of step-by-step breakdowns.
Time was tight, and he needed high-efficiency, targeted correction.
With that in mind, Lai Yudong decisively chose to switch “classes.” Just as he was scanning for his next potential teacher, Zhou Rui from Class C happened to step out from the back row.
“Zhou Rui!” Lai Yudong quickly called out.
The gray-brown-haired boy turned around in confusion. “You talking to me?”
“Yeah.”
One side effect of practicing dance for so long was that Lai Yudong nearly forgot his own identity. Thankfully, he caught himself just in time—he was about to actively engage in conversation with a stranger.
So, the enthusiastic version of him from a second ago instantly shifted into “foreign contestant” mode. Words popped out of his mouth one at a time: “Morning. Thank… you.”
“Morning?”
“For reminder. Time.”
“Pfft, I almost forgot about that myself if you hadn’t brought it up,” Zhou Rui chuckled. “I just mentioned it in passing, no need to thank me.”
He glanced at the big group still dancing behind them. “You’re not learning anymore?”
Lai Yudong answered honestly, “Doesn’t suit me.”
“What a coincidence. Same here. Teacher Jin’s pace is way too slow—it’s better for people who missed the main class and want to start from scratch. So I was thinking of sitting in on another group’s lesson.” Zhou Rui offered casually, “Wanna come with?”
“Sure.”
A self-delivered angelic tour guide—of course Lai Yudong had no reason to say no. He could even take the opportunity to befriend someone who gave him a pretty good impression.
In a closed filming environment, maintaining good relationships was never a bad thing.
With the deal struck, their auditing journey officially began.
First, they visited Jiang Yangfan’s small group from Class B. After watching for a while, they concluded that it was more suited to people who, like Lai Yudong, struggled with memorizing choreography—the pace was even slower than Jin Xiheng’s.
Next stop was Qu Xincheng’s small class, also from Class B. He was the classic “kind-hearted beauty” type—patient and thorough, correcting each person’s movements one by one. While that kind of attentive teacher was exactly what the two of them needed, with over a dozen people in the group, it would probably take until the end of time to get through everyone. Better not to add to his workload.
Those were still considered the better experiences—it was just a mismatch in teaching style.
Some other groups, they found, were just chatting. Some danced for a minute and took a five-minute break. Apparently, Cao Yan’s earlier scolding had gone in one ear and out the other. Their lazy attitudes left one completely baffled—what exactly were they even here for?
After some discussion, the two of them decided to adopt a “class-hopping” approach—whichever group’s pace happened to suit their needs at the moment, they’d sit in on that one for a while.
And so, the two of them hopped from one group to another, circling the practice room multiple times.
[In a corner no one’s watching, two little boys are quietly traveling the world.]
[Yuki and Zhou Rui? When did those two get to know each other?]
[Is Zhou Rui the poor guy who got knocked over during the spot check test?]
[Spicy Chicken Sky devouring my son’s story arc.]
[What story arc? Aren’t they just dance partners or something?]
The label “dance partners” was surprisingly accurate.
Lai Yudong thought back. First, there was Xu An, whom he met by happy accident during the initial stage performance. Then came Zeng Kai, who gave him attitude off-camera. Zhou Rui, on the other hand, was the least dramatic or “story-rich” of all the trainees he’d interacted with so far—and yet, somehow, the two of them had ended up teaming up.
Fate really did work in mysterious ways.
Just like now: after all their wandering, they’d circled back around to Su Junzhe.
With no escape in sight, Su Junzhe was once again forced into the role of a teacher—or to be more precise, the top student acting as the lead dancer.
He had only chosen a quiet spot to practice on his own, yet without realizing it, he’d attracted dozens of people around him.
Aside from occasionally calling out the beat, he didn’t offer any dance guidance and didn’t give one-on-one help. Still, each trainee silently positioned themselves behind him and followed along, as if by unspoken agreement. Those who couldn’t keep up quietly withdrew.
A word came to Lai Yudong’s mind—
Phototaxis.
Everyone had been drawn to Su Junzhe like moths to a flame.
“My roommate said that before class started, Su Junzhe was teaching people in F-Class. I was practicing in the C-Class studio, so I didn’t know. Otherwise, I would’ve gone too,” Zhou Rui said enviously. “He’s amazing—he can teach others right after learning the choreography. I can’t even figure out the moves, let alone teach them.”
Su Junzhe had sharp ears. Even in a noisy environment, he could still catch someone talking about him. He turned his head and replied, “That’s because I’ve been a trainee for four years. My position is main dancer. It’d be strange if I couldn’t do that much.”
Noticing Lai Yudong nearby, he flashed a cute grin, revealing a small tiger tooth. “Didn’t I say you had talent~”
Pleased with his own keen eye, his expression seemed to tear off a corner of the “adorable” mask, revealing a bit more sincerity behind the cuteness.
This childish side of him took Lai Yudong by surprise. But then again, he thought, Su Junzhe didn’t look that old—like an underage high school student. A little immaturity was only natural.
—In truth, Su Junzhe was already an adult.
“Thank you, Teacher Su,” Lai Yudong joked half-seriously.
Su Junzhe immediately played along, “Then hurry back to practice, my future prized disciple.”
[Wait, how do you two know each other?]
[Yuzu was the first student of the Su Tutoring Institute]
[Feels like we missed a lot of plot that didn’t make the main episode]
[Maybe all their scenes got edited out]
[? Whoever did the editing, are you a demon or what]
The barrage of comments reminded Lai Yudong that there was also an edited version of the broadcast. He remembered the system mentioning it would air on the weekend.
So, what day is it today?
System: [Sunday. Same as the original world’s timeline.]
Lai Yudong: [Does the broadcast start next week?]
System: [Yes, next Saturday. It’ll also reveal the first round of rankings.]
Next Saturday—just a day after they finish recording the theme song stage.
This pace was really intense and exhilarating.
Lai Yudong had no sense of how popular he actually was.
Although the discussion in the bullet comments proved he wasn’t completely invisible in the show, the comments had been filtered by the system and couldn’t be fully trusted—it was still entirely possible that there were more criticisms than praise.
Moreover, the number of viewers who watched the recorded version would definitely exceed those who watched the livestream. Livestream viewers typically fell into three categories: early-stage curiosity seekers, casual viewers looking for entertainment, and die-hard fans—hardly a reliable indicator.
Before the actual rankings were announced, he had to lower his expectations and firmly regard everything as a façade of false prosperity.
In the practice room, people were gradually trickling out. The sound of the door opening and closing kept repeating, and it was becoming easier to distinguish the different voices calling out the beats.
Lai Yudong wiped off the sweat that had trickled down along his hair, picked up his water bottle, and gulped down a big mouthful. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that less than two-thirds of the trainees were still in the room, and among them, only a small handful were still dancing.
Within Su Junzhe’s group, the number had dropped to single digits.
“Let’s go to the small studio,” Su Junzhe suddenly suggested. “There’s a mirror there—it’ll be easier to correct our movements.”
Lai Yudong and Zhou Rui looked at each other, seeing the same confusion mirrored on each other’s faces.
Uh… does that mean we passed the test?
Or had Su Junzhe more or less finished his own practice and now had extra energy to help others?
Whatever Su Junzhe was thinking, this was a rare opportunity. The remaining six people followed him and moved from the large practice room to the smaller one.
Previously, when many trainees left, not all of them had given up to rest—some had headed to the small studio. But unlike earlier, this time the class with the fewest people in the practice room was C-class, not F-class.
The difference before and after wasn’t hard to explain.
Besides F-class having more members than C-class, the composition of the groups was also a major factor.
Although Class F ranked lowest among the four levels, it had the highest proportion of trainees brought in from other industries for the sake of show effects, as well as those who severely underperformed during the initial stage. Among them were not only some exceptionally talented individuals but also those determined to make a dramatic comeback through the theme song.
The most important reason was that Class F wasn’t even eligible to perform on stage for the theme song recording, so their sense of urgency was no less than that of Class A members who needed to defend their valuable positions.
Meanwhile, Class C mostly consisted of trainees with a certain amount of practice time, but who either lacked talent or had put in insufficient effort—or both.
This had been the pattern across past seasons of survival shows.
Just for reference—not necessarily accurate.
They eventually settled in the Class C practice room, where only three people were currently rehearsing. When those three saw that the group entering was led by the A-Class training team, they immediately stepped aside from the center area and eagerly asked if they could join.
Su Junzhe readily agreed, “Of course you can.”
[Earth angel Su Junzhe / Heart emoji]
[Little Su is such a kind soul]
[I’m so worried Susu’s own progress will be affected]
But there was no need to worry about that.
From Lai Yudong’s perspective, Su Junzhe was neither a cold, selfish individualist nor an overly self-sacrificing nice guy. He knew how to prioritize, was good at adjusting his approach to different situations, and helped others selectively.
It was B-class’s Qu Xincheng who was more concerning—he welcomed everyone and personally helped correct each person’s movements. At this rate, it was very likely he wouldn’t have enough time to practice the theme song himself.
Even though he had performed commendably in the in-class pop quiz, it would be a real shame if he missed out on joining Class A again because of this.
Teacher and disciple indeed (๑>•̀๑)