Trainee Ch.21.1

Chapter 21.1: Theme Song (8)

On the way back to the dorm, Liang Zhisheng mentioned Mo Li, who was still persistently practicing. But it was only brought up as a conversation topic to keep things from going quiet—he had no intention of actually heading to the A-class practice room.

Not to mention, the three of them had no real connection with Mo Li. After already being turned down once, showing up again just a few minutes later right under the guy’s nose would be pretty tactless.

“Mo Li? He’s still there?”

Lai Yudong looked surprised. Earlier that evening, when he and Zhou Rui shamelessly crashed A-class’s session, not only had Mo Li been present the entire time, he also looked like he’d been practicing for quite a while.

Even their own little trio took a five-minute break after each round of practice, but Mo Li didn’t stop at all—except to take a sip of water—like he didn’t even feel tired.

“Yeah,” Liang Zhisheng said, “he said he’d practice until four. Should be almost done now. Good thing A-Class doesn’t have early classes, but even so, he won’t get much sleep.”

Lai Yudong stayed silent. He figured it must’ve been the dance teacher’s harsh words that lit a fire under Mo Li. For someone who had already debuted once, being given such a poor evaluation on the theme song was no small blow. But in a way, it also showed how thoughtful Cao Yan was being.

As motivational as it all sounded on the surface, Lai Yudong felt nothing but overwhelming complexity.

Even Mo Li, from A-class, was working that hard—meanwhile he, from F-class, had fallen asleep in the practice room.

What did he have to compete with?

Even the saying “the early bird gets the worm” only applied when the other birds were still resting in the dorm.

“He’s really going all out,” Liang Zhisheng said in awe beside him. “When I was your age, a single mountain hike would knock me out for three days.”

“He is going all out,” Lai Yudong echoed absentmindedly, lowering his head and murmuring, “I’m still not working hard enough.”

Liang Zhisheng: “?”

Liang Zhisheng: “Huh? Are you sleep-talking or something?”

If not for the fact that walking back and forth had mostly cleared away his own drowsiness, Liang Zhisheng would’ve almost suspected that he was the one who was sleep-deprived. He gave his low-spirited roommate a baffled glance, starting to wonder if maybe Lai Yudong had just practiced so hard he broke his own spirit due to how weak his foundation was.

Which, as it turned out, was exactly the case.

Based on just a single day’s experience, Lai Yudong could rightfully call himself the second most hardworking trainee on Climbing to Stardom. No one would dare claim the title of first—except maybe Su Junzhe, who could rival him at best. But the two of them had slightly different focuses in their efforts, and when it came purely to intensity of practice, Lai Yudong was far ahead of the pack.

“Don’t worry,” Liang Zhisheng said, patting Lai Yudong’s shoulder. “No matter how hard you try or how talented you are, there’s no way you can surpass trainees with years of experience in just three days—well, except the ones who slack off.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Oh, so just because it’s past midnight and there’s no one around, you think you can say whatever you want now?

“But effort will pay off,” Liang Zhisheng continued, taking the opportunity to ruffle the milk-gold hair on his head. His gentle tone was like coaxing a small child. “Especially with dance. If you practice seriously today, you’ll see improvement tomorrow. Didn’t Teacher Cao Yan praise you in class? He said you memorize choreography fast. That’s a really rare and amazing gift—you can achieve the same results as others, but with less time.”

Lai Yudong suddenly felt like Liang Zhisheng would make a great preschool teacher.

The sense of urgency brought on by the ticking clock left him restless and frustrated—like a group of people running across a collapsing cliffside, where one wrong step meant plunging into the abyss. But he wasn’t a clueless idiot unaware of his own situation. He’d already noticed how things worked among the trainees—not everyone was as diligent as Mo Li or Su Junzhe.

He wasn’t the last one standing, nor was he among the first to fall.

Somewhere in the middle—that was probably his reality.

And yet a casual, dispirited remark of his ended up being met with such serious encouragement.

Lai Yudong turned his head slightly. Under the corridor lights, the brown-haired young man beside him wore an expression that resembled a grown-up who had seen all the ups and downs of life…

Benevolent, even?

What a kind and gentle person.

Perhaps sensing that his roommate was about to thank him, Liang Zhisheng quickly changed the subject: “By the way, your handwriting’s really nice. Did you train in it?”

Lai Yudong’s eyelid twitched. “What handwriting?”

“Your lyrics notebook. When I called out to you earlier, I happened to catch a glimpse. It looked so good I couldn’t help sneaking a few more looks.”

[So that was Yuzu’s lyrics notebook? I thought it was a diary.]

[Who writes diaries nowadays?]

Lai Yudong: “……”

Crap, another misstep.

Why were there so many surprises tonight!?

It was true he had practiced calligraphy before, but… was that something he could admit to?

Wait. This wasn’t the same setting as when he was writing lyrics in the practice room. Back then, he’d been trying to avoid cameras, afraid they’d expose how smoothly he could transcribe lyrics. But this was about handwriting. Japanese borrowed many Chinese characters—including calligraphy, which evolved into its own art form (shodō). So having practiced calligraphy was a perfectly logical answer. After all, it all traced back to Chinese characters.

With that reasoning straightened out, Lai Yudong quickly calmed himself and admitted frankly, “Yeah, I’ve practiced since I was little.”

“No wonder you’ve got such strong perseverance. I was sent to calligraphy class when I was a kid too, but I just couldn’t sit still, so I quit pretty fast.” Liang Zhisheng gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, the differences between people really do show early on. I was like that with dancing too—super inconsistent. I only started practicing regularly after becoming a content creator.”

His story matched what the livestream comments had said during the initial stage performance. Lai Yudong lowered his gaze toward the slightly shorter, brown-haired young man and said sincerely, “You’re amazing.”

“Oh, come on. What’s so amazing about me?” Liang Zhisheng shrugged and said with self-deprecating humor, “In my relatives’ eyes, I’m just messing around. All that schooling gone to waste.”

“Because you stepped outside the boundaries of conventional expectations.”

Although Lai Yudong didn’t think choosing a traditional, stable career—what parents often called an “iron rice bowl”—was a bad idea, not everyone had the courage to take the risk of diving into the unstable, ever-changing world of social media. Fewer still could actually make something of themselves in it. And to enter a survival show as just one of countless content creators, and still make it into that competitive one percent—wasn’t that, in itself, a kind of ability?

Liang Zhisheng fell silent for a few seconds and came to a stop.

In front of them stood their destination: Dorm 707.

He let out a long sigh, then curved his lips into a casual smile. “You barely say anything, but you’re surprisingly good at cheering people up.”

Lai Yudong joked, “Then are you gonna vote for me?”

“I will—once I get eliminated, I’ll vote for you.”

“Maybe I’ll be the one out first.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Go take a shower and get some sleep.”

…

The next morning, at the very first ring of the alarm, the light-sleeping Lai Yudong opened his eyes. He only lingered in bed for two seconds before sheer willpower pulled him out of his drowsiness. Then, right on schedule, he dragged Li Xu—the other poor soul cursed with early classes—out of bed too.

Li Xu sat at the edge of his bed, holding his head for a long time before groggily climbing down from the top bunk. By then, Lai Yudong had already returned from the communal washroom. His bangs had gotten a little wet while washing his face, a few strands sticking damply to his skin, making him look extra fresh and clean.

“Want me to wait for you?” Lai Yudong asked while folding his blanket.

“No need.” Li Xu yawned. “What time did you get back last night?”

“A little past four.”

Li Xu: “……”

Is that even a human sleep schedule?

Since his roommate had turned him down, Lai Yudong had no reason to stick around. He slipped out of the tightly curtained dorm room as quietly as possible, gently closing the door behind him.

Just like the day before, he had set his alarm for half an hour earlier than needed. But unlike yesterday, the hallway and cafeteria were noticeably livelier. Aside from the few early class victims still sealed within their warm blankets, most people weren’t about to face a class on an empty stomach.

Especially F-class—their first period was dance, which would burn even more energy.

What caught him off guard, though, was Su Junzhe cheerfully greeting him, bright-eyed and full of life.

“Good morning~”

Lai Yudong, in the middle of sipping pumpkin porridge with a spoon, looked left, then right—there wasn’t a second person nearby who could have been the intended recipient. Then he met Su Junzhe’s gaze.

Startled, he politely responded, “Morning.”

He was oddly touched by the interaction.

It felt like one of those scenes where the top student in class—the cool, aloof overachiever who only maintains surface-level relationships with others—suddenly invites the quiet underachiever to walk home after school. Completely unexpected and slightly overwhelming.

“How’s your practice going?” Su Junzhe asked warmly, holding his tray as he sat across from him. Then, after taking a sip of iced Americano, he suddenly remembered something. “Ah! Is it okay if I sit here?”

Lai Yudong looked at the chocolate-haired boy who had clearly already sat down on purpose, and calmly nodded. “Sure.”

He had grown fairly used to dealing with trainees he’d had some interaction with.

[Mentor-mentee bonding moment! So sweet! ]

[Our Tiantian Su is once again a perfectly styled little prince today~]

…So it was already considered a mentor-mentee relationship?

Lai Yudong set down his spoon and answered the original question honestly: “I can barely make it through if I don’t follow the music.”

“That just means you’re not familiar enough yet—you just need more practice,” Su Junzhe said with a sly wink, lowering his voice to a volume only the two of them could hear. “It’s more than enough to get through the class. By F-class standards, they might even praise you.”

Lai Yudong looked doubtful. “Really?”

“Really,” Su Junzhe said as he stirred his fruit salad. “Trust my experience~”

[What are they whispering about? ]

[Is there anything we noble fans aren’t allowed to hear?!]

[SuSu and Yuzu’s relationship seems to be improving!]

[I smell the start of a beautiful friendship arc~]

Of course top students had to secretly pass on survival strategies to the ones at the bottom of the class—it had to be done discreetly.

Lai Yudong could more or less guess what Su Junzhe was thinking. It wasn’t so much that their relationship had gotten better, but rather that Su Junzhe had a soft spot for people who worked hard. If Zhou Rui were the one sitting here, Su Junzhe would probably treat him the same way.

Too bad Zhou Rui was in Class C and didn’t have an early class today.

…Wait a second. Doesn’t A-class start at 10:30 too?

Why was Su Junzhe in the cafeteria this early? Did he not sleep? Or had he gotten the schedule wrong?

Faced with Lai Yudong’s puzzled expression, Su Junzhe smiled and explained, “I got up early to reinforce what I practiced yesterday. That way I can go into class in top form. Plus, my body clock’s fixed now—even if I wanted to sleep in, I couldn’t.”

[So disciplined!]

[Early morning review… omg, what a model student…]

[No wonder Susu was one of the only two praised by the dance teacher!]

Lai Yudong was utterly impressed, completely forgetting that the only real difference between them was that one of them practiced in the morning and the other at four a.m.

Only one thought echoed in his mind—

Waking up early to review is totally worth copying.

…

Just as Su Junzhe predicted, the following professional class played out accordingly.

Teacher Cao Yan conducted a group evaluation of F-class’s grasp of the theme song choreography using a relay-style format. One by one, all forty-two trainees took their turn. Over 90% of them were sharply criticized by his icy and unforgiving remarks—only three managed to escape unscathed.

Lai Yudong was one of that rare third. The other two were Wang Yiwen and Pei Lan.

Unlike yesterday, what he received today wasn’t disguised criticism disguised as praise—it was a direct, straightforward compliment.

“Miura Yuki.”

With the full roster of F-class students in hand, Cao Yan flipped to the page labeled Miura Yuki. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “I remember you. You’re the one the producers pulled in last-minute to replace a contestant who dropped out, right? You’re quite familiar with the choreography now, and your timing is much better. For someone with zero foundation, you’ve made impressive progress. Must’ve worked hard after class yesterday, huh? Keep at it—aim to move up a class.”

“Thank you, teacher.”

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