Trainee Ch.30.2

Chapter 30.2: First Performance (3)

Zhao Yifeng didn’t avoid leaving a name — he just acted in such a low-key, casual way that people who didn’t already think well of him might not even realize he was doing something good.

Easygoing. Unbothered. And easily misunderstood.

Lai Yudong thought for a moment and decided to just say it out loud: “Thanks for stepping in for Xu An.”

After all, the comment section was going to dig through the livestream replay anyway — might as well let Pangolin himself reveal the truth.

[I knew it! Yuzu’s a Xu An stan!]

[It makes sense now — he’s talking about when Lin Xiao tried to force a battle with Xu An on the first stage, and Zhao Yifeng shut it down.]

[So Yuzu explained to Liu Qichu that Zhao Yifeng was actually defusing the situation, and then Liu Qichu went and told everyone?]

[Why do I feel like Yuzu sounds more like Zhao Yifeng’s fan?]

[Huh? So Zhao Yifeng was trying to help? I remember the comment section was flaming him for stealing the spotlight.]

[Thank you, Yuki, for speaking up for Fengfeng, wuwuwu.]

A soft and gentle male voice rose above the intro of the song playing in their earphones. Zhao Yifeng looked up in surprise, meeting a pair of clear, bright black eyes. The smile in those eyes gleamed like reflected light off obsidian under a spotlight.

He instantly grasped the hidden meaning behind that simple sentence.

Zhao Yifeng let out a helpless chuckle. “Now I have to thank you again.”

“What?” Lai Yudong put on his earphones, pretending not to understand. “I’m playing the song now.”

“Go ahead.”

After listening to Peppermint once through, Lai Yudong had a rough idea of what the song was like.

In his mind, he imagined a cheerful high school student riding a bicycle past an ice cream stand, a huge bunch of colorful balloons tied to the back. The balloons floated in the breeze, bumping into each other, like splashes of vibrant paint scattered across the vast canvas of the world.

The overall rhythm was upbeat and full of youthful energy. It left him feeling as if he had a mint candy in his mouth — refreshed and uplifted.

“The song isn’t technically difficult, but the lyrics and choreography are both very dense. Doing both at once is gonna be tough,” Zhao Yifeng said, struggling to maintain his usual laid-back demeanor as he mentioned the dance hell awaiting them. “Let’s listen again. This time try humming along to get the melody down.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the sound of rhythmic footsteps echoed beside them.

The Group B next door had already thrown themselves into dance practice, towering over them like a tree reaching into the clouds — casting a long shadow over their few laid-back “pedestrians.”

Group B divided up the parts very quickly. While Huang Yeru and Luo Feiran were still arguing over the position of sub-rapper 1, they had already finished labeling all the members’ names.

They even skipped the choreography breakdown phase—Mo Li, the original performer, directly took on the role of dance teacher.

No wonder they were the first group. Besides “efficient,” there wasn’t a better word to describe them.

Lai Yudong withdrew his gaze and focused on the lyrics sheet in his hands. The more attention he paid to his competitors, the more anxious he became. In a situation with such a disparity in strength, it was even more important to stay calm. Otherwise, he’d lose to himself before the performance even started.

After the second playback ended, Zhao Yifeng took off his headphones. “Your turn.”

Lai Yudong fumbled to catch the headphones that were tossed over to him, momentarily unsure if he should feel at ease putting them on. “You don’t need them anymore?”

“Not for now.” Zhao Yifeng flicked the lyrics sheet. “I want to practice my solo first. I’ll call you when I need them again.”

“Okay.”

[Teacher Zhao and Yuzu are so harmonious]

[+1. Zeng and Luo were about to start fighting]

[Why doesn’t the production team prepare more MP3 players? It’s not like Sky lacks the budget]

[But then there’d be no drama to watch]

Lai Yudong didn’t pay much attention to the barrage of comments, nor did he notice how other small groups were doing. He used the time to practice as efficiently as possible. After a few loops, he was already able to replace the humming and onomatopoeia with actual lyrics.

He turned off the music and tried singing the chorus once. He thought the result was pretty decent—at the very least, no one pointed out in the comments that he had dropped pitch this time.

“You’re not a bad singer,” Zhao Yifeng remarked, glancing at him. He had deliberately given up the device so a weaker teammate could practice first, but it turned out much better than expected. At least he was on the level of a normal person—not tone-deaf. “So why did you sing like that in your first performance? Poor song choice?”

Lai Yudong casually made up an excuse: “Too nervous.”

Although his nervousness wasn’t directly caused by the disastrous performance, he couldn’t exactly admit that it was because he couldn’t roll through the song properly.

Still, he owed a lot to Xu An, who had taught him several vocal techniques and correct ways to project his voice during their break. Thanks to that, his basic skill level had improved slightly.

After a while, Zhou Rui called out while holding a tablet, “Let’s gather up and start learning the first part of the choreography.”

“Aren’t you supposed to wait until you’ve learned the whole song before teaching it?” Zeng Kai remained seated on the ground, motionless. “We haven’t even finished the vocals yet. Mixing song and dance together like this doesn’t seem very effective.”

“I think so too. Right now my head is full of those few lines,” Luo Feiran mumbled quietly.

[I get that it sucks to be interrupted halfway through learning a song, but saying it like that must make Zhou Rui uncomfortable…]

[Zeng Kai’s not wrong, though. Trying to learn a few lines of the song and then some 8-counts of choreography—it’s all jumbled and inefficient.]

[The other group is already rehearsing the dance. Zhou Rui is probably anxious.]

[I saw other groups either start with the choreography or at least set up a clear plan.]

[Group A’s training method is so chaotic.]

[Sweetie, the suggestion here is: if you’re not happy, just figure out the choreography on your own.]

Lai Yudong stood up without a word, using his actions to show that he was firmly in the pro-choreography camp.

Honestly, the fact that someone was willing to sacrifice their own practice time to learn the choreography and teach it was already commendable. The ones lying around waiting to be spoon-fed had no right to complain or nitpick.

Even if it were four in the morning and he was sleeping soundly, if Zhou Rui dragged him out of bed to learn the newly decoded dance, he wouldn’t utter a single complaint—he’d probably even ask if Zhou Rui wanted him to pour a glass of water.

Zhou Rui froze for a few seconds with the tablet in hand, then explained good-naturedly, “It actually works better to learn the dance while I’m figuring it out—it helps me reinforce it too. Plus, I want to work on the vocals while you guys are digesting the choreography. If I teach all the choreography in one go and then move on to vocals, all the problems will pile up at once, and it might delay my own progress…”

“Learning choreography takes longer than learning vocals.”

Lai Yudong took the opportunity to pick up the thread of the conversation.

He hadn’t planned on speaking at all—Luo Feiran could still be excused for not being the sharpest, but Zeng Kai was clearly different. His words and actions came off like a teenager in the middle of a rebellious phase, deliberately confrontational. There was no point in arguing.

Worse, it might leave a bad impression on camera.

But as Zhou Rui continued explaining, Lai Yudong found his reasoning increasingly shaky—especially that last sentence. Before Zhou Rui could continue down that path, Lai Yudong quickly stepped in to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Even if you’re technically in the right, you never say things like “delaying my own progress” in front of the cameras.

Since the performance shown to the audience is a group stage, priority should be given to the group. Especially now, when this round is a team-based showdown—only if their group wins would they have a chance at earning the bonus points awarded to the member with the highest individual vote. The team must come before the individual.

It’s like a college group project. Even if everyone else in the group is dead weight and your only contribution is done at the last minute, you still smile in front of the professor and call it a collaborative success—choosing to “forget” any bitter grudges against your teammates.

The idol industry and camera exposure just amplify this principle.

Zhou Rui’s kind but self-focused explanation could easily be twisted by others into something with a less flattering implication.

But there was a way to handle it.

It sounded a bit manipulative, but the trick was to use the moral weight of team spirit as leverage.

The three people involved in the dispute all looked over at him. Keeping a calm expression, Lai Yudong asked, “Will we be ready for the class assessment?”

The unspoken meaning: Anyone who objects is holding back the entire group’s progress.

He had a point. It was Friday today. The class assessment would take place next Monday, when the mentors and course instructors would be checking each team’s rehearsal progress.

From a timing perspective, by the day of the assessment, everyone should have at least learned two-thirds of the song—though in Lai Yudong’s opinion, they should really be familiar with the entire thing. Otherwise, they were bound to get a scolding. But given the current state of their group, that might be a bit difficult.

If they followed Zeng Kai’s suggestion, either Zhou Rui wouldn’t have time to practice singing and memorize the lyrics, or the rest of the group wouldn’t have time to get comfortable with the choreography—neither outcome was ideal.

In the end, it was the team leader, Shu Tengjie, who stepped in and made the final call: they would follow Zhou Rui’s method and start with the dance.

It was Zhou Rui’s first time teaching choreography, and standing at the front, he was clearly flustered. Several times, he tried to correct someone’s movement but struggled to find the right words. It would take him a long, halting explanation before his teammate finally understood what he meant.

The atmosphere within the team was already fairly lax, and his lack of assertiveness didn’t help. As a result, while he corrected one teammate individually, some of the others wandered around or suddenly sat down to rest as if they couldn’t sit still.

Compared to the neighboring team, theirs looked more like a senior community center where retirees passed the time with casual group activities.

After finishing the last eight-count of the dance, Zhou Rui looked exhausted, like someone who had just been released from a prison yard. He rubbed his temples and nervously asked, “Has everyone learned it?”

“Yes.”

“If we don’t get something, we’ll ask you.”

“Let’s leave it here for now. Thanks for the hard work.”

Zhou Rui couldn’t really get a read on these people, but since they all said that, he had no choice but to trust them. “Alright, I’ll move on to the next part.”

Seeing the ash-gray–clad boy pick up his tablet and return to sit in the corner, Lai Yudong walked over and crouched down beside him.

“Can I go over it with you?”

Zhou Rui was startled by the sudden voice next to his ear, and even more surprised by what was said:

“You’ve already learned the song?”

“Just two lines.”

It was a four-second section that Lai Yudong had listened to dozens of times on repeat. He was so familiar with it that he could sing it fluently. He had also learned the slightly longer group chorus part before the dance practice began.

Overall, there was no issue—he could work on the finer details later. Right now, dance was the priority.

Most importantly, he was worried Zhou Rui might shut down entirely if this kept up.

“Then let’s do it together,” Zhou Rui said, exhaling a barely noticeable sigh of relief. “But I’m not as efficient at decoding choreography as Teacher Cao or Su Junzhe, so don’t expect too much from me. Or—if you want, you can help me break it down too.”

“I’ll try,” Lai Yudong said, a little uncertain.

To make it easier to learn the moves, Zhou Rui flipped the original video into a mirror image and slowed the playback speed to 0.75x.

He divided the section into smaller parts, pausing frequently to sort things out before continuing. He repeated each segment with the slowed-down music until he could perform it smoothly, then returned to full speed. If he could go through it once without making a mistake, he considered the move learned.

After they finished decoding an eight-count, Zhou Rui couldn’t help glancing sideways at Lai Yudong, who had finished just a little ahead of him. The latter was practicing a single move in front of the mirrored wall over and over, reinforcing it through muscle memory.

With a hint of envy in his voice, Zhou Rui said, “You memorize choreography so much faster than I do.”

Lai Yudong didn’t deny his advantage. He repeated the move again in front of the mirror, but no matter how he looked at it, he wasn’t satisfied.

“But I don’t look good dancing.”

[Not look good!?]

[Wake up! Your biggest strength is that you look amazing when you dance!]

[I’m crying, and the tears are coming out of my mouth.]

Lai Yudong: “……”

He and the commenters probably had different ideas of what “looking good” meant.

Moving on to the next eight-count, the choreography became noticeably more difficult—quick, intricate footwork, complex hand movements, and a lot of detailed motions involving the head and shoulders.

Zhou Rui dragged the progress bar back and replayed it several times before attempting to follow the moves at slow speed.

Still uncoordinated, Lai Yudong failed to keep up on the first try. His limbs started “brawling” with each other without his brain’s permission, so he immediately stopped, deciding to observe how Zhou Rui did it first.

But as he watched, he quickly noticed something was off. More precisely, Zhou Rui’s movements didn’t match the original.

Once the music stopped, Lai Yudong spoke up: “Your hand placement is off.”

“Where?” Zhou Rui asked, puzzled.

“Your hand should be down.” Lai Yudong demonstrated the general movement, then picked up the tablet and located the same move in the original video to show he wasn’t making it up. “See? It’s down.”

“Really?” Zhou Rui, still skeptical, tried the move again in front of the mirror. A moment later, realization struck. “Oh— I didn’t bring it back in time. I dropped it on the next beat instead.”

[Yuzu-baby’s attention to detail is amazing.]

[I feel like he’s memorized the whole routine already, but his body can’t keep up.]

[He was the fastest at memorizing the choreography during the theme song practice, even in F-class.]

[The more you all say this, the more I suspect Yuki’s limbs are stolen goods.]

“And also—”

Lai Yudong paused for a second, momentarily distracted by the barrage of jokes in the comments.

He scrubbed the video back a bit, then zoomed in on a frozen frame. Pointing to the dance teacher’s hand, he said, “Here. The fingers are extended, but you made a fist.”

“You’re right.” Zhou Rui studied the tablet thoughtfully. “You’re not just good at remembering choreography, you’re really sharp with dance movements—especially the details.”

After a moment, he slowly looked up and seriously proposed:

“How about… you take over decoding the choreography?”

Lai Yudong: “?”

Are you sure?

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