Trainee Ch.22.1

Chapter 22.1: Theme Song (9)

After all forty-two trainees took turns singing, Jiang Xiaoting gained a clear understanding of how Class F was handling the theme song. That understanding could be summed up in one phrase—

They basically weren’t handling it at all.

The entire class’s skill distribution mirrored the structure of the show itself: a pyramid. Only a few performed well; most had landed in Class F due to major mistakes during their initial stage performance. Even someone like Lai Yudong—essentially a karaoke enthusiast—ended up in the upper-middle tier of this mini pyramid.

Judging from the results, the class rankings had been fairly determined.

Faced with a group of struggling and problematic students, Jiang Xiaoting couldn’t afford to be as relaxed as she was with Classes A and B. After switching off the backing track, she began accompanying on the electric keyboard and led them through the song slowly, line by line.

The first round was a nanny-level breakdown. The second was a full-speed demonstration. After that, the trainees were given fifteen minutes to practice, and then everyone had to sing for her one by one in front of the entire class.

“You rushed the beat again. You were the first to jump in earlier too. Count to three in your head before singing.”

“Rhythm—pay attention to the rhythm! You’re singing way too fast!”

“Your high notes are nice, but your expression is way too twisted. Practice in front of a mirror more.”

“Too weak—your breath control isn’t enough. You need to work on your lung capacity.”

…

The moment anyone opened their mouth, their flaws were laid bare before the professional’s eyes. Jiang Xiaoting’s gaze locked onto each singer like a radar, sharply pinpointing their issues and offering specific ways to improve.

The more perceptive trainees could make immediate improvements with her guidance and showed clear progress on their second try. But not everyone achieved the same results. Some were like uncarved wood—no matter how many times they repeated the song, it didn’t make much of a difference. Others had problems that couldn’t be fixed in such a short time.

Lai Yudong fell into the latter category.

It was unclear whether it was intentional or just a coincidence, but the part he was assigned to sing happened to be the line: “Please look at me, don’t give up on me.”

Jiang Xiaoting pressed the final key on the keyboard and looked toward the blond-haired boy who was nervously hiding the lyrics sheet behind his back. She gave an objective assessment: “Your pitch and rhythm aren’t major issues, and your tone is very nice—but that’s not enough to cover your lack of vocal technique. There are a lot of problems, and they’re quite obvious.”

“First of all,” she asked a soul-piercing question, “your voice is way too quiet. Are you afraid to sing?”

“I’m sorry.”

Lai Yudong didn’t want to bluff his way through vocal class like he had been doing with his conversations the past two days. He wanted to show his real ability, but he also didn’t want to overdo it and raise suspicion. So in the end, he intentionally softened his voice.

Since the teacher had pointed out the problem, he immediately dropped to his knees in surrender (figuratively speaking).

“No need to apologize to me,” Jiang Xiaoting continued. “It’s enough that you’re aware and willing to improve. Secondly, your articulation is overly precise. Clear diction is generally a good thing, but every syllable you’re pronouncing is too full and uniform—there’s no distinction between light and heavy, no variation in tone. So it ends up sounding unnatural.”

“……”

In a broadcast student’s life, it was rare to hear the critique that your enunciation is too clear.

Lai Yudong felt wronged. He had already tried to restrain his pronunciation and had definitely not been foolish enough to sing with a broadcaster’s tone.

Some habits, though, were probably etched into his DNA.

Jiang Xiaoting followed up with another jab: “Lastly, your vocal placement needs correction. It’s good that you’re not using your throat to sing, but singing should engage both the head and abdominal resonators.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Utterly defeated—this broadcast student had just been told his vocal placement was wrong.

Even though it all sounded rather technical and complicated, the layman’s version was pretty simple: the vocal techniques for broadcasting and singing use different parts of the body.

Vocal production is made up of three components: breath support, articulation, and resonance.

In broadcasting and hosting, a combination of chest and abdominal breathing is used to project the natural voice with clear, full, and precise articulation. The emphasis is on resonance from the chest, oral, and nasal cavities.

In contrast, vocal music uses abdominal breathing, involves the transition between chest and head voice across vocal registers, and emphasizes relaxation and natural delivery. It relies more on flexible use of oral, head, and chest resonance.

It’s clear that while the two disciplines differ, they also share similarities. If mastered, both broadcasting and singing can benefit from the crossover.

The problem is, habits that have formed over a long period are hard to change instantly.

Jiang Xiaoting practiced a few rounds with Lai Yudong using singing-appropriate vocal techniques. The results showed some improvement—but only for that specific segment. If he were asked to sing a different part on his own, he’d instantly revert to his usual ways.

Since class time was limited and they couldn’t afford to keep going until he fully corrected everything, the best she could do was provide the foundational demonstration. The rest would have to be up to him—practicing over and over again after class.

Lai Yudong found it hard to decide which was more torturous—dance class or vocal class.

One felt like constructing a skyscraper from nothing, with no materials provided and only an incomprehensible blueprint.

The other was like having painstakingly built that skyscraper, only to be told last-minute to tear it down and replace it with an amusement park.

So seriously, why him for a survival show?! (flips table)

Send him to a Chinese Poetry Competition and he might actually make the finals. Put him in a talent show and you’d only ever find him in a practice room at 4 AM!

System: [Host, you are the best match for this simulation. Please don’t underestimate yourself.]

Lai Yudong: [Try running that line through a cyber-brain before you speak.]

…

From the end of vocal class to the theme song evaluation, Lai Yudong had less than 48 hours of free practice time in total. He fully committed to his “cut corners where you can” approach and did everything he could to minimize sleep.

It was exhausting, yes—but to close the gap between himself and the others, there was no shortcut. The only option was to practice relentlessly.

Lai Yudong wasn’t fighting this battle alone.

After finishing vocal class with Class C, Zhou Rui came over to find him. The reason? He felt lost without a group, worried he wouldn’t be able to handle high-intensity solo practice, and hoped to have a partner for mutual support.

Confirmed dance partner vibes.

Lai Yudong was also without a group. He couldn’t find a rhythm with his roommates—Liang Zhisheng had entered full-on slacker mode, Li Xu was a lone wolf who appeared and vanished like a dragon, and Xu An was still stuck in the beginner dance phase, barely hanging on by sneaking into other classes.

Even getting a glimpse of them was rare. With Lai Yudong heading out early and returning late, he hadn’t seen any of his roommates awake after vocal class. The only exception was during lunch the next day, when he and Li Xu happened to order the same stir-fried green beans with pork.

He was also somewhat familiar with the guys across the hall—Su Junzhe and Liu Qichu—but they weren’t the type to train together either.

The key difference between him and Zhou Rui was that Lai Yudong didn’t really care about having a “source of emotional support.” Alone or in a crowd—it made no difference to him as long as it didn’t interfere with his progress. Still, having someone around who could motivate him into a productive cycle wasn’t a bad thing either.

And so, the two of them quickly hit it off. They practiced side by side without disturbing each other—each focused on their own tasks. Only during breaks or mealtimes would they exchange a few words. Most of the time, Zhou Rui did the talking while Lai Yudong played the role of a reliable listener.

Assessment Day, 1:00 a.m.

Less than twelve hours remained before the second evaluation. The Class F practice room still held many trainees hard at work. There had been a noticeable spike in last-minute cramming, and the stiff, awkward dance moves on display made one instinctively break into a cold sweat on their behalf.

In stark contrast, Lai Yudong and Zhou Rui were taking a short break. They sat side by side, leaning against the wall, both drenched in sweat like two wet towels hung up to dry.

[Breaking news! The grind-core duo is finally taking a break!]

[Have they really not stopped since coming back from dinner?]

[Scrolling up—yep, confirmed.]

Zhou Rui rested one hand on his knee, gazing ahead with longing. “I really want to make it into Class A.”

Lai Yudong took a sip of water. “Believe in yourself.”

“Belief isn’t enough,” Zhou Rui said with a bitter smile. “The competition this season is way too intense. Only seven debut spots, and Class A has a limited number of slots—it’s hard to imagine someone like me making it. Getting into Class B would already be a win.”

“Intense?” Lai Yudong tilted his head, confused. He didn’t follow the survival show scene on any platform, so he had no idea how Zhou Rui had reached that conclusion.

“In most previous seasons, debut groups had nine or even eleven members. Some shows didn’t even limit the number of people in Class A. But this time, it’s only seven. The top contenders are going to be neck and neck.”

“Why fewer spots?”

“Because the idol industry isn’t doing great. There are more trainees than fans these days. At this rate, they could probably make a show where fans vote on which trainees to keep. Plus, this is Sky Entertainment’s first time producing a survival show. Keeping the numbers low is a safer move.” Zhou Rui laid out his analysis seriously, then quickly added, “Just my guess, though.”

Still, it sounded pretty convincing.

Zhou Rui had explained these kinds of behind-the-scenes industry details to the half-clueless Lai Yudong more than once.

For example, Qu Xincheng and the show’s founder, Fu Hanyu, were both signed under the same parent company—Tianhua Entertainment, a subsidiary of Sky. So from the moment rumors of Qu’s participation leaked, he had everyone’s attention.

Another example: the debut group would be managed by Sijia Entertainment, a company partially owned by Sky. That was the agency behind stars like Mo Li and Lin Xiao.

Even though none of this really helped with actually debuting, at least it gave Lai Yudong a more realistic understanding of the current landscape.

The other trainees had backing from powerful agencies, while he—was essentially nothing.

Lai Yudong: [So… what is LYD Company, anyway?]

System: [A fully customized independent studio tailored just for you.]

An independent studio…

Wasn’t that just a fancy way of saying he had a one-man shell company?

Without much hope, Lai Yudong asked:

[Can you at least buy me some marketing and get me on the trending page?]

System: [That function can only be unlocked once the host uses their initial funds to generate income.]

Lai Yudong: [Don’t tell me the initial funds are—]

System: [Didn’t you already open your suitcase?]

Lai Yudong: […]

All he had was some pocket change?

In a closed-off recording environment?

How exactly was he supposed to make money—launch a sob-story crowdfunding campaign on camera?

Absolutely absurd.

He had no desire to go down in history as the first contestant disqualified for illegal fundraising.

“Yuki, you don’t look so good.” Zhou Rui noticed the furrowed brows and the way Lai Yudong rubbed his temples, thinking he was physically worn down from the intense training. “Want to call it a night?”

“I’m fine.” Lai Yudong took another sip of water, trying to swallow his overwhelming frustration with the morally bankrupt system.

He vaguely replied, “Just thought of something… unpleasant.”

Zhou Rui misunderstood again. “Don’t worry—you will move up a class.”

Lai Yudong gave a noncommittal smile. “You too.”

The hour hand unknowingly moved toward five o’clock, and the sky outside had begun to lighten with the pale white of dawn. In the F-class practice room, only Lai Yudong and Zhou Rui remained. Even the comment feed had been inactive for a while, not a single message appearing.

The moment they stepped out of the practice room, Zhou Rui was so sleepy he had to close his eyes for three seconds every two steps, his gait wobbly like a hungover old man. “I can’t… I’m seeing afterimages…”

Lai Yudong quickly stepped forward to support him, afraid Zhou Rui might accidentally walk into a wall and end up wrapped in bandages during the theme song evaluation—a tragic fate.

“Thanks,” Zhou Rui murmured weakly, glancing up. To his surprise, he didn’t catch much sleepiness on Lai Yudong’s face. Those dark eyes were as bright as polished obsidian. “You’re not tired?”

“I am.”

Zhou Rui gave him a once-over. “Seriously? Doesn’t show at all.”

Lai Yudong glanced speechlessly at the boy with ash-brown hair who was half-slumped over him. Compared to Zhou Rui, he really didn’t look that tired.

It wasn’t like he’d evolved into a new kind of human who didn’t need sleep—pulling an all-nighter until this hour, of course he was exhausted enough to want to collapse on the spot. In fact, they’d wrapped up an hour later than the night before.

It was only because he had a companion who could motivate him that he’d managed to hold on a little longer.

That was exactly the result he’d hoped for.

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