Trainee Ch.36

Chapter 36: First Performance (9)

The highlight of “Spring Colors” was entirely centered on one person from Group A — Xu An.

After years away, the black-haired boy returned to the stage packed with spectators, still carrying the title of champion. The audience erupted in deafening cheers that drowned out the shouts of other fans, as if the golden age once belonging to this genius youth had returned.

As a lyrical ballad leaning toward vocal performance, the song largely downplayed Xu An’s weakness in dance. Although he wasn’t the center for this piece, his presence as the main vocalist outshone the actual center. With three effortless high notes, he gave the illusion of “If it were me, I could do it too.”

His gentle voice, guided by refined technique, built the emotion layer by layer, like a graceful bird dancing through the shadows of lush trees, breaking through clouds of gloom and soaring toward the open sky.

By the time Xu An lowered the microphone from his tightly gripped hands, the gloom had already been left far behind — what followed was the warm glow of spring born from hardship.

Spring Colors mean the sunlight of spring.

Among the seven songs in the first performance, none could suit him better than “Spring Colors.”

After having their ears blessed by Xu An’s stunning vocals, the audience found Group B’s version bland in comparison. The former felt like being led by the hand for a peaceful walk through a beautiful spring day; the latter barged in like a slap to the face that yanked people out of their dreams. Their attempt at the three high notes ended up as three cracks in pitch.

During the vote appeal segment, both groups were called back to the stage.

When the microphone was passed to Xu An, he accepted it with both hands amidst the screams of fans, looking even more nervous than he had during his performance.

He took a deep breath. “Long time no see.”

[Long time no see!!!]

[I broke down the moment I heard that…]

[Welcome back 5555]

[I can’t take it anymore. I’ve waited three years for this day]

Sitting in the waiting room, Lai Yudong watched the boy with the bob cut on screen with mixed emotions. Xu An had been rock-solid during his three high notes, but now his hand holding the mic trembled uncontrollably.

Lai Yudong’s lips were curled in a smile, yet his eyes stung a little, as if a thin layer of mist had clouded his vision.

Whether as a viewer who once followed Hear My Voice, or as a roommate who lived with him day in and day out, he genuinely felt happy for Xu An.

Someone born for the stage and who loved the stage should be standing in the spotlight.

“I haven’t seen my own lightboards in a long time,” Xu An said with a shy smile, sincerity overflowing in his voice. “Hearing people cheer for me again… it felt surreal, like something that only happens in dreams. Thank you to those who once supported me and never forgot me, and thank you to those just getting to know me and choosing to learn about me. I’m Xu An, trainee number one from Group A’s ‘Spring Colors.’ I hope I can continue to stay on this stage and sing for you.”

The live feed cut to the audience.

A girl covered her mouth with one hand, crying uncontrollably, while the other held up a hand banner with Xu An’s name. Though her hand trembled just like Xu An’s on stage, she refused to lower it.

“I can’t take scenes like this…”

Liang Zhisheng was clearly moved by the emotional speech. He wanted to distract himself with a casual conversation, but when he turned his head, he was met with the sight of a tear slowly sliding down his roommate’s cheek.

He froze for a second. Forgetting whether it might be inappropriate, he quickly pulled out a compact from his pocket. “Yuki, quick, touch up your face — the staff is about to come and call your group to get ready.”

[Liang Zhisheng’s gonna kill me with laughter]

[Wait—Yuki is a crybaby type??]

[Sorry but… he looks so good when he cries]

[What are you doing just staring? Screenshot it already!]

Lai Yudong: “…”

Suddenly, the tears wouldn’t come anymore.

Lai Yudong was highly empathetic. In moments like this, it was as if he could completely immerse himself in others’ emotions. Though he tried hard to hold back, the instant the camera cut to Xu An’s fans, a single tear slipped down his face, uncontrollably.

Just one tear — the second was forcefully held back.

While murmuring his thanks, he accepted the compact and quickly dabbed at his face, making sure there were no obvious tear stains left behind.

The very next moment, a staff member pushed the door open and delivered a heart-stopping announcement:

“Peppermint group, time to head backstage and get ready.”

…

When voting ended, Xu An’s personal votes were far ahead of the rest.

Aside from discussion about the Spring Colors group’s performance and results, attention rapidly shifted to the final group yet to perform. Their impending appearance had drawn in more and more livestream viewers, and in the blink of an eye, they dominated the barrage of comments.

[Here in a flash! Has the Peppermint group started yet?]

[Which group is Mo Li in, A or B?]

[Help, I want to watch but I’m too nervous to look]

[I know for sure Mo Li’s group is going to win, but can the vote gap not be too huge? I’m worried for my Yuzu QAQ]

[All my favorite boys are in the Peppermint group]

“The final stage performance,” said show host Fu Hanyu, pausing for effect, “is the debut song of idol group Fir-Nine, who came from a survival show three years ago—”

He revealed the name that sent the venue into an uproar: “Peppermint.”

The screams reached their peak in that moment, and the names of all the popular contestants echoed through the arena.

The two groups entered from opposite stage wings. Their outfits created starkly different visuals: Group A wore bright and vivid candy colors, while Group B was dressed in fresh, clean white.

At the very end of Group A stood the tallest boy in the team, his light blond hair glowing under the stage lights. He wore a sky-blue jacket over a light-colored shirt collar that peeked out from underneath. Whether it was his poised and elegant posture or his flawlessly handsome face, everything about him made him stand out from the crowd.

His expression held a hint of nervousness, and the fingertips hanging by his side trembled slightly.

His eyes, a pale green like tender grass, swept across the audience below. His gaze lightly touched on each individual support banner as if counting them one by one, pausing briefly on every fan sign. Then, he gave a small wave to greet his fans.

[Yuzu’s outfit is so youthful! Love it!!!]

[Is that blond guy on the far end the one who blew up on trending?]

[Where’s my aloof Yuzu? He looked so serious and tight-lipped on the debut stage, a total cold-hearted cool guy!]

[When Miura Yuki isn’t smiling, his eyes and brows still look pretty cold]

[Just goes to show how versatile Yuzu is]

[What a magnificent face—are you sure there’s no beauty filter on this?]

[No filters at all, this is 100% live]

Lai Yudong was startled by the audience’s overwhelming enthusiasm the moment he stepped onstage. A bit flustered, he waved toward the crowd.

He had never experienced anything like this.

Though his fans had already made a big deal out of telling him “See you on the performance stage!” after work, he hadn’t expected to see so many huge “Yuki” characters spread throughout the audience, glowing here and there in primrose yellow.

To Lai Yudong, the number of Starseekers who came just for him was beyond anything he’d imagined — and those glowing signs were only the ones held up high enough for him to spot in the dark, not even counting the ones without any signage.

But to the fans themselves, the turnout felt far too small.

Because the trending topic had blown up so suddenly, and the heart-melting “after work” video was released even later, the official audience recruitment for the first performance had already taken place two weeks earlier—there hadn’t been any time for fan unions or major fan accounts to organize sign-ups.

As a result, most of the attendees were casual fans: people who hadn’t decided on a favorite when they applied, those who switched biases after signing up, or wealthy fans who bought tickets at high prices last-minute. No matter the reason, the majority fell into one of these categories.

Many didn’t even have time to customize lightboards and could only print hand banners on the fly.

But more than lightboards, what worried them was whether his live voting numbers might fall behind.

Lai Yudong, of course, knew none of this. All he knew was that he was so nervous he was about to pass out.

The moment Fu Hanyu announced, “Let’s welcome Group A to the stage,” his heart started pounding like a debt collector banging on the door. His limbs went stiff, as if soaked in a bucket of ice water.

His goal, as always, was simple:

Don’t drag the team down. Do his part well.

Group A’s stage for Peppermint had a garden theme. Lai Yudong’s starting position was at the edge of the stage, sitting on a wooden swing wrapped in fresh flowers, holding a soft white pillow under his arms.

As the music started, he swayed leisurely with the rhythm while silently counting beats in his head. Right on cue, he tossed the pillow behind him, then executed a short dance segment — limited to upper body movements — on the gently swaying swing, before standing up and walking toward the center of the stage.

[Did a robot sign up for this survival show?]

[Petition to give this handsome guy limbs worthy of his face]

[Okay, jokes aside, Yuzu’s clearly improving]

[He’s only been learning to dance for a little over two weeks — this is already really good]

[It might be because the swing was a bit wobbly]

[He hit the beats pretty accurately]

Lai Yudong: …

He’d been so nervous, he forgot to turn off the live comment overlay.

He quickly commanded the system to disable it and focused all his attention on the stage.

The first line was sung by Zhao Yifeng, who held the handheld mic. The catchy opening immediately drew the audience into the song, followed seamlessly by vice vocalist 2, Shu Tengjie.

But the smoothness was short-lived. As soon as Luo Feiran began his rap, he fell off beat and never managed to find the rhythm again throughout his entire segment.

Lai Yudong instantly felt a sense of dread.

A mistake this early could easily rattle the whole team, dragging everyone else down with it.

Fortunately, Luo Feiran’s slip didn’t affect Zhou Rui — in fact, Zhou Rui was performing even better than during rehearsal.

The performance continued with a few thrills but no real disasters, until halfway through when Lai Yudong caught, out of the corner of his eye, Zeng Kai fumbling with his in-ear monitor, seemingly dislodged during the dance.

But he had no mental bandwidth to spare worrying about anyone else.

Because his part was coming up.

As the formation shifted and positions changed, Lai Yudong moved from the rear side to center stage, where he delivered two precious lines of lyrics:

“Come with me into this midsummer night’s dream…”

The stage lights cast a gentle glow over the light blond boy. The fine strands of his hair shimmered like golden sand. His makeup was just right — fresh and natural, striking a balance between barefaced and flamboyant, accentuating his youthful aura.

He raised his arm with graceful lines, hitting every step with light, precise footwork. Though his dancing wasn’t dazzling, it was noticeably smoother than the beginning. His expressions were neither exaggerated nor forced — just enough to add charm, like watching an unripe fruit slowly ripen before your eyes.

He arched his brows and smiled — a clean, sincere smile, like a cool breeze on a summer night blowing away all the heaviness in your heart.

At that moment, his sleeve slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of fair skin. He rotated his wrist, then gently hooked a finger toward himself, drawing a graceful arc in the air—

As if extending a grand, private invitation just for you.

The brief four seconds ended, and not a single frame was wasted.

As the camera moved away, Lai Yudong stepped aside from the center to give the spot to Zeng Kai. His light, confident demeanor gave no hint that he’d been panicking so hard earlier that his brain had nearly shut down from lack of oxygen.

This was far beyond the experience of recording the theme song — it was the raw, overwhelming reality of having countless eyes fixed solely on him.

And everywhere he looked, there were lightboards glowing just for him.

He couldn’t even tell if his racing heart was due to nerves or sheer exhilaration.

But before Lai Yudong’s heartbeat could return to normal, a stage mishap occurred — one that made everyone panic.

Zeng Kai forgot the lyrics.

The part he was supposed to sing only came out as a few muddled syllables. After that, nothing — not a single word. The instrumental played on, awkward and unattended.

Lai Yudong, standing nearby, glanced at Zeng Kai and saw his lips moving faintly, his face pale. But the in-ear monitors carried no sound.

Maybe the earlier mishap with his earpiece had thrown him into a full-on panic, and now the lyrics had completely vanished from his mind.

Strangely, Lai Yudong wasn’t even that surprised.

At this point, cursing Zeng Kai mentally ten thousand times wouldn’t help. The priority was minimizing the damage.

Zeng Kai was vice vocalist 2 — this wasn’t a one-line mistake. He still had three lines to go, and judging by his frozen state, he likely wouldn’t recover in the next few seconds.

If no one picked up the slack, the entire segment would be left awkwardly empty.

Even worse, the next person after him was Huang Yueru, whose mental state had been fragile since rehearsals. If left unchecked, it could snowball into a disaster.

What mattered now was immediate damage control.

Lai Yudong didn’t have time to overthink. Fortunately, he knew the lyrics so well it was as if every line had been written for him. Without hesitation, he jumped in and sang what should have been Zeng Kai’s second line:

“This fateful encounter, this heart-stopping moment…”

Going on stage to perform was nerve-wracking enough, and the sudden scare from his teammate made Lai Yudong’s heart rate skyrocket. His voice was slightly less steady than during his solo earlier, but fortunately, it wasn’t a major issue. He forced himself to calm down, adjusting as he sang.

By the third line, Zhao Yifeng raised his mic to harmonize with Lai Yudong, like a solid pillar of support holding up his voice, allowing him to sing on bravely without any fear.

It was Lai Yudong’s first time performing a part he hadn’t rehearsed, yet his reaction easily deserved a high score. His dance movements in this section were larger than Zeng Kai’s, but despite stepping in to save the moment, it didn’t affect his own performance in the slightest.

Zeng Kai didn’t utter another word for the rest of that section—whether he still hadn’t recovered enough to recall the lyrics, or simply lacked the presence to reclaim his part, no one could tell.

Lai Yudong smoothly finished the final line.

Huang Yueru immediately followed up. He had also been badly startled by Zeng Kai just now while standing further back. Luckily, their teammate stepped in; otherwise, he might have gotten so nervous he’d forget his lyrics too.

The rest of the performance went off without a hitch.

After enduring what felt like a century-long stage, the music finally stopped. In that very second, Lai Yudong froze in a sideways, one-knee-down pose. He turned his head toward center stage, waiting for the camera to capture each team member’s close-up shot.

As the camera swept to him, he turned grief and anger into a wink, flashing a smile that was completely at odds with how he actually felt.

May there be no more stage accidents in this world.

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