Chapter 76: Pupper on Strings
Qingpao, a rising sparkling water brand over the past two years, has strong sales and growing recognition—the only downside is its lack of heritage.
Originally, Qingpao sponsored Starlight purely for brand exposure, but then Yue Zhaolin burst onto the scene, and Qingpao hit the jackpot.
The Soda Festival performance went viral, so the brand’s official Douyin account posted a bunch of Yue Zhaolin clips, leading fans of other trainees to complain that the account was being used for personal bias.
Some even spread rumors that the person managing the account was Tide.
On that note, Xu Mingmei was speechless: “They talk like Tide controls everything. Didn’t the other trainees get stuff too?”
Spoken ads, clips of them drinking Qingpao, and Soda Festival performances—none of that was out of line. It was all standard brand promotion.
It’s just that every single post of Yue Zhaolin’s went viral, so his presence felt overwhelming.
Peng Tao said, “Once you pull out a little spreadsheet, they all shut up.”
She had already learned the tricks of the fandom world—when you’re arguing in fan circles, spreadsheets are essential. The numbers make it painfully clear who’s winning.
“Oh right, when will our light signs be ready?”
“Next week!”
“Then we’ll definitely make it in time.” The finale night was still a ways off.
Peng Tao added, “I looked up past talent shows—finale night tickets usually go on sale on Damai, and they’re super hard to get. I already contacted a ticket agent.”
Starlight’s finale would be held at Hongyuan Stadium, with over ten thousand seats, but Peng Tao had zero faith in her reflexes.
Might as well just buy.
Fans of other trainees had repeatedly accused Tide of being overbearing—hogging all the audience tickets for public performances and leaving no chance for regular viewers.
Back when Tide was still a rookie fandom, they’d explain themselves: there are just a lot of us, it wasn’t intentional.
Now—
Yeah, we’re overbearing. So what?
Mao Ding, who routinely checked the Super Topic, tracked stats, and fought off smear campaigns, saw someone talking about the issue and suddenly blurted out, “Domineering Tide goes hard in the love department?”
Crushing votes, massive momentum, and fan support that was clearly well-organized—it wasn’t just about spending a lot of money, but also showing a lot of love.
Orleans, who was hiding in the restroom with him playing on their phones, didn’t quite catch what Mao Ding said. “Love who?”
Mao Ding replied without missing a beat: “I love you.”
Orleans: “Ugh.”
After goofing around for a bit, it was about time. The two of them wordlessly shut off their phones, planning to grab some breakfast at the cafeteria before heading to makeup.
And just by chance, they ran into Tan Shen in the hallway.
This round’s performance of “Playing with Ambiguity” was the first act, so Tan Shen was rushing by.
When he got to the makeup room and sat in front of the mirror, Tan Shen suddenly remembered something and told the staff, “Sister, I’ll be right back.”
It took Tan Shen a few minutes to track down Yue Zhaolin. He got straight to the point: “Yue Zhaolin, double-check your outfit and props.”
Verse had quieted down a lot yesterday, but then again, people like him were often insecure and arrogant—what if he was planning something big?
Better safe than sorry.
Yue Zhaolin replied, “Got it. I’ll check.”
Tan Shen’s concern wasn’t unfounded. After all, both the first and second performances had run into all sorts of unexpected issues. Double-checking was just a way to eliminate risk.
…
Normally, there would be a brief pre-performance interaction segment. Like during the first show, Fu Xunying had brought out a camera to do some on-screen flirting with Yue Zhaolin.
This time, it was Chu Li’s turn.
Chu Li knew Yue Zhaolin was mentally tense for the third performance, so he didn’t buzz around him pretending they were besties.
He simply held up the camera and circled around Yue Zhaolin once.
Using the tone of a movie narrator, Chu Li whispered like a mosquito: “Everyone, look—this handsome man is called Xiao Yue.”
“The corners of his lips hold a touch of rebellion, a hint of cold indifference, and a strong dash of dominance. With just one smile, he sends millions of fans into a frenzy.”
Yue Zhaolin: “……”
Makeup artist: “Zhaolin, don’t smile yet.” She needed to finish setting his makeup.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chu Li suddenly noticed a plush doll on the table—it looked a lot like Yue Zhaolin in costume.
That section of the intro had been re-choreographed, and this was the new prop they were going to use.
Excited, Chu Li picked it up and held it next to Yue Zhaolin’s face, framing both in the shot. “Say cheese—how about a father-son photo?”
Yue Zhaolin: ?
Just then, the makeup artist, who had been working with full concentration, did one final set, straightened up, and let out a deep breath. “Alright, makeup’s done.”
“Still ten minutes until two o’clock. The audience should be going through ticket check now.”
Once Yue Zhaolin stood up, the assistant who had been waiting by his side carefully inspected his outfit and makeup again, making sure everything was perfect.
“Okay, let’s head to the standby room.”
“Let’s go.”
Because this round only had 36 performers, the production team had arranged a larger standby room for everyone to watch the stage together.
When the full cast of “Puppet on Strings” arrived, three groups were already in the standby room: “AI”, “Red Velvet and the Ring”, and “Five Senses and Six Perceptions.”
As for “Playing with Ambiguity” and “Relaxed Vibes”, they had already gone backstage to prepare.
Yue Zhaolin sat in the center and watched the screen light up.
The third public performance was about to begin.
…
Since this performance featured mentor-collaboration stages, Li Ying couldn’t be everywhere at once. The host this time was replaced by a breakout actor from Green Fruit platform’s hit costume drama last year.
Sikong Mingzhe smiled at the audience as he greeted them: “Hello everyone, I’m Sikong Mingzhe, also known as Immortal Lord Mingxi from The Legend of Ruoxi.”
There had been no MC segment during yesterday’s rehearsal, so none of the trainees knew he’d be hosting. The standby room erupted in surprised gasps.
Sikong Mingzhe had also started out in a talent show, but made little splash at the time. He later switched tracks to act in costume dramas for several years before finally rising to fame with a breakout role.
He had once been an idol, so technically he was “in the right field,” and hosting a talent show didn’t feel out of place. Besides, hosting wasn’t hard—just read off the script.
In truth, Sikong Mingzhe hadn’t wanted to take the gig. Sharing the stage with Yue Zhaolin meant he’d get completely overshadowed. But there was no way his company would let him turn down such prime exposure.
Still wearing his unwavering smile, Sikong Mingzhe began introducing the first performance, “Playing with Ambiguity.”
Verse was listening from offstage.
This time, Verse had a rare moment of cunning. He had decided to hold off on leaking the news that “Yue Zhaolin snatched Li Ying’s center position” until after the performance aired.
If he leaked it too early and Li Ying heard, what if Li Ying clarified it live onstage?
But if he waited until after the performance, he’d have proof—
After all, the center opening spot for every other group was taken by a mentor. Only “Puppet on Strings” had Yue Zhaolin in that position. Wasn’t that ready-made evidence?
Verse’s plan was simple: rile up Li Ying’s fans after the show and let them do the attacking. He’d sit back and watch the chaos unfold, reaping the benefits.
Sikong Mingzhe: “Let’s welcome the Playing with Ambiguity group to the stage!”
Verse licked his lips.
So what if the performance looked good?
Just wait for the backlash.
He stepped confidently onto the stage.
Seven people stood in their assigned starting positions. The lights dimmed, and as the intro music began, the first performance, “Playing with Ambiguity,” officially kicked off.
The audience was watching, and so were the trainees in the standby room.
As the camera cycled through each member’s lines, Fu Xunying watched for a while and started to feel that something was off.
His own rapping skills weren’t that great, but even he could tell that Verse’s diction was slurred, and his verses were filled with meaningless plosives and sputtery breath noises.
He glanced at the other trainees and could tell he wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Fu Xunying leaned over to Yue Zhaolin and whispered, “Is he just shining because the others are worse? Tan Shen’s part was actually pretty nice.”
He was saying this so casually because he knew the production team wouldn’t air any footage that made him look bad—so he had no filter.
As he spoke, his breath brushed against Yue Zhaolin’s ear, making Yue Zhaolin twitch slightly.
“Tan Shen really brought some fire this round.”
Just as Playing with Ambiguity was wrapping up, staff came over to call them. “Puppet on Strings group, head backstage to prepare.”
“Got it.”
Yue Zhaolin got up and headed to the backstage holding area with Fu Xunying and the others—right as the Playing with Ambiguity group came offstage.
Verse looked absolutely awful. He clearly knew he’d been completely outshined by Tan Shen. Meanwhile, at the back of the group, Tan Shen was riding high.
Hands in his pockets, a pair of gradient mist-purple sunglasses perched on his nose, he strolled past Yue Zhaolin and gave him a cocky smirk: “Check it out, I—cough—”
He’d meant to show off a bit in front of the ever-flawless Yue Zhaolin, but his throat itched at just the wrong moment.
“I’m gonna go… grab some… water…”
He hurried off.
Honestly, Tan Shen had solid looks—mixed-race features, bold and striking—but there was something inexplicably funny about his whole vibe. Watching him was oddly relaxing—at least, according to Yue Zhaolin.
Next up was the performance of Relaxed Vibes, and after that, it would be Puppet on Strings.
Seeing he still had a little time, Yue Zhaolin switched to power-saving mode and quietly ran through the choreography twice more until he heard Sikong Mingzhe onstage introducing their group.
…
As soon as the intro ended, Yue Zhaolin’s group Puppet on Strings stepped onto the stage.
“Hiss—”
The usual screams were replaced by the sound of people gasping in awe, too stunned to speak.
Yue Zhaolin noticed a few girls in the front row staring at him in a daze. They were wearing moon-themed bracelets, so he smiled at them.
The big screen faithfully captured this moment in a close-up.
The puppet-style makeup leaned toward a mixed-race aesthetic.
It was clean and polished, but accentuated his facial bone structure, the curve of his lashes, and the thickness of his eyeliner—enhancing the natural lift of Yue Zhaolin’s upturned eyes.
A faux tear mole had been added just under one eye—evoking charm, romance, and a kind of seductive sorrow.
His skin tone, however, was somewhat pale, diluting any overly decadent feel.
His eyes were gray. When he narrowed them just slightly, what the audience first saw was tenderness and allure—followed, chillingly, by something inhuman and deadly cold. It sent a shiver down their spines.
A beautiful face, perfectly matched makeup, and an ornate, puppet-themed shirt with luxurious layers—the total effect wasn’t just 1 + 1 + 1 = 3. It was something far greater.
Down in the audience, Tide let out a series of strange, strangled noises from their throat.
“Ahhhhhhh—!”
“What is this makeup?! It’s drop-dead gorgeous!”
“Moon God descended!”
“No, seriously, he’s too seductive…”
“Ehehehehehe thank God I came—if I missed this, I’d rather be dead.”
Sikong Mingzhe looked a little overwhelmed, but Li Ying, being more experienced, stepped in with a smile: “Looks like everyone agrees Zhaolin’s styling suits this song perfectly?”
From the crowd, a high-pitched female voice rang out again like a lightning bolt:
“Super suits him! AAAAAAHHHHH!”
The scream was practically bloodcurdling.
The director signaled Sikong Mingzhe to quickly follow the script—this was a crucial moment they had to capture for marketing.
Steadying himself, Sikong Mingzhe said, “I heard that for this stage, Brother Li, your group re-choreographed the dance?”
“Yes,” Li Ying replied, “we revamped the intro—and gave Zhaolin the new center position.”
Li Ying explained the reason and process behind the center position switch—this entire speech had actually been ghostwritten by someone from his studio.
—Framing it as “for a better stage performance, not fixated on being center” instantly solidified his image as a responsible, professional team player.
After all, giving up the center spot wasn’t a small thing. There had to be compensation in some other form.
Yue Zhaolin took the microphone and spoke earnestly: “I’m deeply grateful to the PD for his trust and recognition, and for his patient, wholehearted guidance. During our training, the professional advice on both singing and dancing has been invaluable to me. I hope today’s performance will be something both the PD and everyone watching can feel satisfied with.”
Li Ying’s fans, hearing that, begrudgingly relaxed.
At least he’s not an ungrateful brat.
Sikong Mingzhe then shifted the conversation to the other trainees, and after going around once, it was finally time for the stage.
“—”
The lights dimmed.
Ding… ding, ding.
It was the sound of a music box.
Amid the pounding hearts of the Tide fandom, a spotlight shone faintly onto center stage.
The big screen lit up, showing a cloth doll—its limbs and head bound by white strings.
It wore tiny clothes, had gray button eyes and white hair. The strings tugged at it, making it bounce lightly in rhythm with the music.
After a few beats, a soft humming began to echo gently.
The camera slowly pulled back.
The one controlling the puppet sat on the ground—like a life-sized version of it. Same gray eyes. White hair, neatly styled.
He moved his fingers slightly.
He Jie’s eyes immediately caught the detail—Yue Zhaolin’s hands had been specially made up, painted to look like a puppet’s joints.
He hummed a tune, smiling as he lifted his fingers, strings wrapped around them, playing with the tiny version of “himself.”
His smile widened, and his eyes—already like gray mist—seemed to deepen further, now tinged with a greedy, human yearning.
The “puppets” surrounding Yue Zhaolin came to life. Though they made no sound, the humming faded, and the stage quieted.
Down below, He Jie instinctively held her breath.
Suddenly—
He seemed to lose consciousness. Limbs limp, his whole body tilted forward.
Just as He Jie was about to cry out, someone pulled the strings attached to him.
Yue Zhaolin’s body, which had pitched forward, now lifted—his head hung low, and his arms rose, one high, one low.
He’d gotten even thinner. The wrist being lifted was long, slender, and sharp-boned, its veins faintly visible beneath the skin.
The camera pulled back—behind him stood Li Ying, arms raised, manipulating the strings. Their movements were synchronized, but the stiffness showed.
The puppets around them began to walk over.
“Ding.”
It was the final note of the music box. The intro drew to a close, and in that moment, Yue Zhaolin raised his head.
The beautiful puppet wore a faint smile at the corners of his lips, and beneath his eye was a teardrop-shaped mole—innocent, soft, heartbreakingly lovely.
He Jie’s skin broke out in goosebumps all at once.