Chapter 74: Life-sized ball-jointed doll
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t exactly a major career crisis—because when it came to Yue Zhaolin, the fans were in a league of their own. Everyone else, including Tan Shen, belonged to a different tier altogether.
Forget about trying to reach that top tier. But within the second tier, Tan Shen still had to fight for a spot in the leading group. After all, even among eunuchs serving the emperor, there’s a difference between those who serve directly in the inner palace and those sweeping the floors…
Wait a minute, that’s not right—why was he using eunuch metaphors?
Tan Shen: “……”
Having a very clear sense of his own positioning, Tan Shen also knew that his role was to provide emotional value. Those two fighting for a spot weren’t even running in the same lane as him.
Still, maybe it was about time he started thinking about how to increase his irreplaceability—whether he could dig deeper into his role and build something lasting.
Tan Shen thought of the runway show he had mentioned earlier.
Luxury brands were split into ready-to-wear and haute couture lines—
Ready-to-wear fashion weeks were always held six months in advance, so back in January they had already released the autumn/winter collections. July would then be for the Spring/Summer 2025 shows.
As for haute couture, it was released just one month in advance, making it truly in-season fashion. The only haute couture fashion week he hadn’t done yet was the autumn/winter one in July.
Back then it had just been a passing comment—but now, maybe it was time to seriously look into it.
…
Earlier, Shu Yang had said: let Wei Lai think about it—who had the power to sway voting results?
Even though Yue Zhaolin’s fans hadn’t made a big deal about controlling the votes, their ability to rally people was incredibly effective. It was something everyone knew by now.
Why were Mao Ding and Wei Lai chosen?
If the reasoning wasn’t clear, then look at the outcome: voting them into the upper tier meant two people got bumped out.
Wei Lai and Mao Ding exchanged a glance, suddenly realizing what was going on. Their hearts skipped a beat as they reached a shared conclusion:
“This… means someone’s not satisfied with the current upper tier?”
Their faces flushed red with excitement.
No matter how things ended up, they’d already come this far. They had done everything they could—acting hesitant or coy now would just seem ungrateful.
As for the royal picks, they did have a sense of crisis, but it wasn’t that strong. After all, the “royalty” had essentially been pre-determined to debut. No matter how many votes fans threw around, the production team always had ways to protect them.
It also didn’t matter much if the “royals” had some moral flaws—unless they were on the level of Duanmu Hongxue, most things would be brushed under the rug and whitewashed without a second thought.
Compared to scandals like “Cen Chi caught brawling in Korea” or “Fu Xunying buying fake credentials”, there were two confirmed pieces of dirt on the current upper-tier royalty:
First, Zhu Zhu—a repeat contestant from several previous survival shows, with a past accusation of b*llying staff, though it was later “clarified” as just joking around with a friend.
Second, Rong Ruize—backed by capital from Hong Kong and Taiwan, a frequent nightclub-goer whose secret Instagram account was filled with likes on posts by lingerie models. That too had been “explained away.”
Mao Ding and Wei Lai seemed to be targeting their spots.
—They took it personally.
Even if they believed that Yue Zhaolin’s fans couldn’t actually impact their debut chances, they were still pissed. The two of them immediately closed ranks and presented a united front.
Some men always assumed that when girls banded together, it was some palace drama fueled by petty backstabbing and fake friendships—conveniently ignoring that boys did the exact same thing. Like now: these two had become the targets of Yue Zhaolin’s fans, and with a common enemy, they bonded by gossiping that “Yue Zhaolin is totally fake.”
—To pander to fans, Yue Zhaolin probably even practiced how to cry prettily. Who the hell cries over a drone show?
—The more Xingqiong and Yue Zhaolin try to pander, the more likely they’ll have a major fallout. Don’t breed a bunch of toxic stans.
One snide comment after another—each one served to reinforce their alliance.
That said, compared to Zhu Zhu, Rong Ruize was much better at keeping up appearances. When he practiced “Puppet on Strings” with Yue Zhaolin, there wasn’t a hint of anything wrong.
—
Practice Room
Once the group members had gotten somewhat familiar with the basics of popping, Chen Wu began leading them in breaking down the choreography—starting with a rough pass.
The intro of the music featured a series of ding-dong-like synthesized chimes, reminiscent of a music box, followed by a soft hum that lagged half a beat behind the melody.
The combination of the two instantly brought out the eerie undertone at the core of the song’s style.
The hum in the intro was sung by Li Ying, so it didn’t need to be sung live, but there was choreography during that part.
Originally, the formation had Li Ying in the center, with the other six members surrounding him, mimicking marionettes “awakening” as they stood up—movements stiff and jerky, like creaking joints.
But since Li Ying wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, they focused on their own parts for now. This was just a rough breakdown anyway—stationary practice, getting the movements ingrained first before fine-tuning.
As he demonstrated, Chen Wu said, “This part has a lot of beats. Pay attention: it’s one-da, two-da, three-da, four-da. On the last ‘da,’ your elbow should strike upward.”
“Right. Very good.”
Some were a bit stiff, but not to the point of zombie flailing.
Chen Wu was satisfied—this group had much better flexibility than his last team.
He also noticed something else: teaching Yue Zhaolin was genuinely enjoyable. Most of the time, as soon as he explained something, Yue would try it a few times and immediately grasp the idea. It really scratched that “I love teaching” itch.
Chen Wu quietly placed Yue Zhaolin in the same category as dancers like Chu Li and Cen Chi. As for Fu Xunying and Rong Ruize… that was a different standard altogether.
As he kept teaching, Chen Wu suddenly understood why, back in school, he had never been the teacher’s favorite like his seatmate had been—he had truly been kind of dumb back then.
Chen Wu: “……”
This was the bullet he shot in his youth landing squarely in his forehead ten years later.jpg
The entire following day, Chen Wu continued leading the group through the choreography—starting with rough breakdowns to get everyone familiar with the moves, then gradually polishing the details and adding in formation changes.
With over ten hours of practice a day, repetition alone could build muscle memory.
This particular song featured a multi-style urban choreography, blending elements of popping, hip-hop, and contemporary dance.
It placed strong emphasis on visual impact, which made it no easy task to learn—there were plenty of challenges:
In the verse section, dancers paired up—one kneeling in front, one standing behind. The two had to move in near-perfect synchronization;
With Li Ying included, there were seven members in total—a mid-sized group by K-pop standards—so the formation constantly shifted. Frequent position changes meant every member had to get some face time on stage;
And then there were the triple backbends.
The song’s climax—the killing part—featured a close-up on Yue Zhaolin, but his core strength wasn’t quite there yet, and the quality of his third backbend was inconsistent.
He was supposed to hold a fixed position, but several times he just ended up flat on the ground.
Yue Zhaolin: “…”
The familiar slapstick expressions, the familiar frustration at himself, the familiar aggressive extra practice.
Fu Xunying: “Pfft.”
He was thoroughly amused—though half an hour later, the laugh was gone from his face.
Close to 11 p.m., the six members practicing “Puppet on Strings” finally wrapped up for the day. Yue Zhaolin’s triple backbend had also become a little more stable.
With the third public performance around the corner, Yue Zhaolin had considered sleeping in the practice room, but couldn’t overcome his germophobia—he needed a proper shower and shampoo before sleeping in a clean bed.
Exhausted and sleepy, he let out a yawn, mustered enough energy to wave at the Tide fans by the railing, then boarded the shuttle back to the dorm.
Fu Xunying buckled his seatbelt. When he turned his head, Yue Zhaolin was already asleep.
“……”
Fu Xunying clicked his tongue silently in his mind.
Another day packed with performance class, dance practice, and memorizing lyrics—there’s only so much one brain can handle. Switching nonstop between physical and mental labor? Of course it’s exhausting.
Fu Xunying had long thought that Yue Zhaolin didn’t need to push himself so hard, but he never tried to impose that belief on him.
He knew Yue Zhaolin wasn’t treating the survival show as just a stepping stone. He was serious—and had been putting in real, consistent effort.
Fu Xunying muttered under his breath.
Two years.
That’s the typical contract length for limited-time groups in China’s idol industry. In reality, group activities might last less than half a year before everyone goes solo.
He and Chu Li were perfect examples—using the show for exposure, but always aiming for historical dramas as their main goal.
But now, Fu Xunying had changed his mind—
He’d stick with him for now. After all, it’s just two years.
Yue Zhaolin, half-asleep, was nodding off—his head tilting more and more, leaning precariously in Fu Xunying’s direction.
Fu Xunying quickly reached out: “Hey—”
Yue Zhaolin: “…Mm?” He blinked drowsily open. He didn’t think he had actually bumped into Fu Xunying, but still apologized out of courtesy.
Cen Chi, seated nearby, said, “Zhaolin, you go shower first later. Then sleep right after.”
“Thanks,” Yue Zhaolin replied, stifling another yawn.
Because of the Soda Festival event, they had less than a week to prepare for the third public performance. Yue Zhaolin had chosen to cut down on sleep to make time for more practice.
Of course he was exhausted—he had instinctively learned how to squeeze in fragmented naps wherever possible to get by.
That day, during the short midday break, he was dozing off when the talent coordinator came to wake him. He needed to go try on his stage makeup for the third performance.
This time the styling was a completely different aesthetic, so Xingqiong had brought in a new studio just for this look. They needed to do a trial run and take some photos to see how it turned out.
No telling how long it would take—he’d better inform PD Li first.
Li Ying had been practicing with the trainees over the past couple of days, but since he had already learned the choreography beforehand, most of the recent sessions were focused on blocking and formation work.
Time was tight for the third public performance, but the whole group was doing well—especially Yue Zhaolin.
When he heard about the makeup trial, Li Ying just said, “Go ahead.”
…
Makeup Room
The makeup artist was already waiting.
She greeted Yue Zhaolin and got straight to the point. “Come on, have a seat here.”
Then she motioned for her assistant to cleanse Yue Zhaolin’s face and pin back his stray hairs. “By the way, Zhaolin, do you know what BJD is?”
Yue Zhaolin: “I do.”
BJD—ball-jointed dolls, articulated figures with movable joints that can be posed in all kinds of ways.
The makeup artist continued, “People who collect BJD dolls usually draw realistic skin textures on their faces and bodies to make them look lifelike.”
“Your makeup is a bit different. We want you to look like a doll who’s wearing realistic, human-style makeup at a glance.”
It was a bit of a tongue-twister when you tried to explain it.
In “Puppet on Strings”, Yue Zhaolin’s character was that of a perfectly crafted, flawless doll. The makeup and styling were tailored to fit that aesthetic.
A flawless, hyper-realistic humanoid look—paired with Yue Zhaolin’s silver-white hair, it would deliver an immediate visual impact on stage.
The makeup artist said, “Alright, I’ve adjusted your foundation shade slightly. It’s a little lighter than your natural skin tone. Lift your face—I’ll test the color.”
“Okay.”
This makeup trial was more meticulous than any of the previous ones. After all, painting a doll-like texture on a human face was far more difficult than the looks from the first and second performances.
The makeup artist carefully worked on his face stroke by stroke. The brushwork was gentle, almost hypnotic to Yue Zhaolin.
He tried his best to keep his eyes open.
If they’d been in the practice room, where his body had to keep moving, he probably wouldn’t have felt this tired. But the moment he entered a quiet space, the sleepiness hit hard—completely out of his control.
The cameraman who caught this moment almost burst out laughing: “…”
Yue Zhaolin was truly exhausted. Even after downing copious amounts of tea, he was still barely staying awake—functioning purely on willpower now, trying his best to cooperate.
The makeup session dragged on—possibly over half an hour. By the time they finished his eye makeup, Yue Zhaolin’s eyelids were half-closed, looking like his soul had left his body.
Even the makeup artist couldn’t help but smile. “You can lean back and nap for a bit—just don’t move your head.”
Next up was the lip makeup.
Yue Zhaolin: “Okay.”
His lips were naturally well-shaped and smooth, so applying makeup there saved a lot of steps.
When the artist started painting in the fine lip lines, Yue Zhaolin suddenly stirred. He paused for a second, looking like he was about to stand up. She quickly said, “Hey, don’t move—”
Yue Zhaolin: “Sorry, sister. I need to use the restroom.”
His face was covered in makeup, so his expression couldn’t be seen clearly, but his brows were furrowed.
“Oh, no problem—go ahead.”
Yue Zhaolin strode off toward the bathroom. As soon as he rounded the corner, he pressed a hand to his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing repeatedly—he felt like vomiting.
Most likely it was from overexhaustion these past few days, plus all the tea he’d just had—his body was reacting poorly.
The sensation wasn’t overpowering; it faded after a short moment.
There were a few benches along the hallway. Yue Zhaolin picked one and sat down, planning to rest a bit. He was overwhelmingly tired, and his eyes were sore and stinging.
…
That was the scene Li Ying walked in on.
Silver-white hair, a flawlessly painted but almost unreal-looking face—Yue Zhaolin sat motionless on the bench, head slightly lowered, eyes fixed blankly on the floor.
His gaze was unfocused. He didn’t blink or move.
He looked exactly like a life-sized ball-jointed doll.
If it weren’t for the fact that April Fool’s had already passed nearly a month ago, Li Ying might have seriously believed this was the production team pulling some kind of prank.
But in that moment, when Li Ying saw him sitting there, the first impulse that crossed his mind was to go over and check if Yue Zhaolin was still breathing.
Technically, he and Yue Zhaolin were peers—competitors—but the second Yue Zhaolin’s silhouette entered his line of sight, another image flashed across Li Ying’s mind:
The third performance stage.
That opening segment… it really suited him.
The marionette inside the music box—eerie, beautiful, humming half a beat behind the melody. Everything about it felt like it had been tailor-made for Yue Zhaolin.
The full-dress rehearsal was scheduled for later that afternoon, and yet, so close to the stage, this thought suddenly took root in Li Ying’s mind.
And it was only growing stronger—
Should the intro center be switched to Yue Zhaolin?