Chapter 37.1: First Performance (10)
After the performance ended, Group A exited the stage via the backstage corridor stairs, handing the spotlight over to the true protagonists of “Peppermint”—Group B.
Excitement ran high on stage, but backstage the atmosphere was bleak. The two members who had made mistakes hung their heads and didn’t dare to speak. Their group had no chance of winning to begin with, and now even calling them supporting “green leaves” felt like too much—they were more like tattered, hole-ridden dead leaves, which better matched the performance they had delivered.
It was Zhao Yifeng who finally broke the silence. He opened his arms and gave each member a heartfelt hug, comforting them in a lighthearted tone: “The result doesn’t matter. You all worked hard.”
When it was Lai Yudong’s turn, he stepped forward first and hugged Zhao Yifeng proactively, thanking him for stepping in during the performance: “Thank you.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you?” Zhao Yifeng gave him a pat on the back, adding a bit more sincerity than the polite words he’d given to Zeng Kai and the others. “Good job. You’ve improved a lot.”
“You really saved us, Yuki!” Zhou Rui rushed over in one swift move, grabbing Lai Yudong’s hand and shaking it up and down excitedly. “My mind went completely blank at that moment. I never thought of jumping in to save the scene! Thank goodness you reacted in time!”
“I thought Zeng Kai’s part only had one line,” Chu Tianyi quipped, using a joke to take a subtle jab at a teammate he’d long been annoyed with. “I was thinking, huh, this doesn’t quite match how we practiced…”
Surrounded by the three of them, Lai Yudong felt a little embarrassed by all the praise. He didn’t think he had done anything particularly remarkable.
Sure, he’d saved the moment—but even that came with flaws. He was aware his voice had trembled slightly when he first came in. Fortunately, he’d managed to recover by adjusting his mindset and providing vocal support—but the part only lasted a few seconds before it ended.
Moreover, he had only stepped in because he didn’t want the team to crash and burn too badly. He cared deeply about the integrity of the performance—as long as he could help it, even if it wasn’t perfect, the missing parts had to be filled.
With that thought, his turquoise-green eyes shifted toward Zeng Kai—and, as luck would have it, their gazes met.
Seeing the other wearing an expression that looked like he wanted to say something but held back, Lai Yudong, who was good at reading the room, didn’t let sympathy get the better of him. Instead, he mimicked the cold attitude Zeng Kai had once shown him on the stairwell, turning his gaze away indifferently and pretending to be a clueless foreigner unfamiliar with local social cues.
He was a little angry.
Even Liang Zhisheng—who had slacked off during the initial stage performance and was notorious for sleeping in and skipping out during the theme song assessments—had been pulling late nights recently, putting in effort to not be a liability. In contrast, his own teammates seemed to be sleepwalking through the stage, delivering one “surprise” after another.
If his teammates hadn’t made mistakes, he’d be willing to let go of past frustrations. Lai Yudong wasn’t someone who got angry easily. Besides, he could understand the root of their disagreements and temper flares these past few days. It was normal for them to distrust him, or even hold biases against him.
But taking a step back, even if Luo Feiran’s mistake stemmed from nerves and limitations in skill, at least he still delivered his part word for word despite the anxiety.
Zeng Kai, on the other hand, forgot all his lines.
If no one had stepped in to cover for him, he probably wouldn’t have even made it to the fourth line.
Even if the excuse was that his in-ear monitor fell out halfway through, it was still ridiculous. If he had practiced enough, muscle memory alone should’ve carried him through. And it wasn’t like the monitor fell out mid-performance—there were two full lines before his verse, plenty of time to recover and adapt.
Maybe it was because his lyrics weren’t limited to just four lines that he didn’t cherish the opportunity.
Lai Yudong had jumped in to save the performance with three lines—more than what Zeng Kai had in his original part.
Thinking back on how fiercely they’d fought over parts made the whole thing feel kind of ironic.
Back to the stage.
If Group A’s stage resembled an enchanted backyard garden, then Group B’s was like a stroll through a summer amusement park.
The production team had brought in a white-and-pink ice cream truck, topped with a string of balloons. Beside it sat a matching set of pastel pink table and chairs. A three-tiered European-style fountain was filled with colorful flowers, all beautifully aligned with the original music video’s aesthetic.
In the same position Lai Yudong had previously occupied stood Mo Li, the center of the performance. He sat on a folding chair beside the ice cream truck, resting his head on one hand atop the table, acting out a drowsy, sleepy vibe typical of a lazy afternoon.
As the music began, Mo Li sat up with casual ease and executed an upper-body dance segment that was both fluid and precise.
No surprise—he was the original singer, after all.
“To be honest, I think the swing design was better. It’s more memorable,” Zhao Yifeng commented objectively.
Mentioning this made Lai Yudong sigh. “The swing wasn’t stable.”
Even the slightest movement on his part made the light, hollow swing sway back and forth. During yesterday’s rehearsal, the constant swaying had nearly made him dizzy, so on today’s stage, he had to be especially cautious.
As a result, his already uncoordinated limbs became even stiffer. Once again, the livestream comments roasted him for looking like a robot. But if you watched the later-released practice room version, where he sat in a regular chair, he didn’t seem nearly as stiff or restricted.
Lai Yudong couldn’t wrap his head around it—why not give the more difficult stage setup to Mo Li?
Then again, the gap between them wasn’t something a mere swing could fix.
Thankfully, aside from that, Lai Yudong’s performance was solid overall. Even his timing in the choreography—long a weak point of his—was praised by viewers in the comments.
Group B’s performance was excellent. Mo Li was an impeccable textbook example of an original singer on stage. Aside from Class C’s Lu Zhihao being slightly off during the rap, each member brought their own unique charm without clashing with the team, resulting in a highly polished, professional performance.
In the audience, Fir-Nine’s fan support was as perfectly synchronized as a military drill, giving the impression of a long-established boy group on tour.
Their own scattered, disjointed performance didn’t even come close in comparison.
Lai Yudong figured it was probably best not to open the livestream comments just yet. He wasn’t thin-skinned or afraid of criticism, but he didn’t want to suffer guilt by association.
After Group B’s performance ended, host Fu Hanyu stepped onto the stage to move things along:
“Now it’s time for the voting appeal. Let’s welcome the trainees of ‘Peppermint’ Group A back to center stage.”
Lai Yudong took a moment to collect himself and followed his teammates through the corridor. Even if they didn’t stand a chance at winning, they couldn’t show defeat.
The first to take the mic was Zhou Rui. “Hello everyone, I’m Trainee No.1 from Group A, Zhou Rui.”
He turned slightly and looked toward the other end of the lineup. “These past few days, Yuki has really helped me a lot. Without him, I might not have had the courage to stand on stage. This might be my final performance on Climbing to Stardom, so I hope everyone can vote for the both of us.”
Finishing his speech, he smiled at the visibly surprised Lai Yudong and passed the microphone to the next person.
“Hello everyone, I’m Trainee No.2, Zhao Yifeng.” He flashed a bright smile, his voice as light and vibrant as musical notes. “Two years ago, I promised I’d meet you again on a bigger stage. And now, I finally get to stand here. I hope I haven’t let you down—and next time, I’ll bring an even better performance. Please vote for me. Thank you!”
The rest of the team gave their appeals in turn, until only two people remained who hadn’t spoken.
When the mic reached Zeng Kai, he skipped the usual self-introduction and went straight in with a shocker: “I’m sorry. I hope everyone can vote for Zhao Yifeng and Miura Yuki.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
How was he supposed to follow that up?
Unlike Zhou Rui, who had casually included him in his appeal for votes, Lai Yudong couldn’t tell whether Zeng Kai was trying to drag him down in a final moment of desperation—or if he had genuinely realized his mistake but lacked the social tact to express it properly.
If his votes ended up low, people would mock him for being hopeless and beyond saving.
If his votes ended up high, people would accuse him of stealing someone else’s votes.
He was in a tough spot.
It’s not like he could just go up there and say, “Please return Zeng Kai’s votes to him.”
The only silver lining was that he was scheduled to speak after Zeng Kai—there was still room to do damage control.
Lai Yudong took a deep breath and accepted the microphone with the air of a condemned man: “Good evening, I’m Trainee No.8 from Group A—Miura Yuki.”
A wave of cheers erupted from the audience, just as loud and enthusiastic as when Zhao Yifeng had spoken.
The unexpected popularity caught him off guard. He didn’t have time to process it, though—he simply chalked it up to the audience’s general bias toward good-looking people.
Even though the hand holding the mic was shaking, his solid professional instincts wouldn’t allow him to fumble the speech. To stay in character, he deliberately slowed down his speech, his tone sounding even gentler than usual.
“Please vote for the trainee you like. I hope that person happens to be me. Thank you.”
That was the most neutral, safe line he could come up with the moment he took the mic.
—
After the voting window closed, both groups from “Peppermint” gathered in the results room where the outcome would be announced. In the center of the wall hung a large LCD screen lit up with the show’s logo.
Lai Yudong was the last one to enter the room. Only one seat remained—at the very end of the row.
The seating arrangement was a long bench rather than individual chairs, so everyone ended up sitting close together, practically shoulder to shoulder.
He thought he’d once again have the misfortune of sitting next to Zeng Kai—but unexpectedly, the team wasn’t sitting in trainee number order. The second person to enter, Zhao Yifeng, immediately took what would’ve been Zeng Kai’s seat.
Avoiding the six teammates on the other side, Zhao Yifeng sneaked a quick wink at Lai Yudong—it was clear he did it on purpose to spare him any awkwardness.
Honestly, sitting next to Zeng Kai wouldn’t have been that big of a deal. Lai Yudong wasn’t particularly bothered by such things—after all, Zeng Kai would definitely have felt more awkward than he did. But Zhao Yifeng’s small act of kindness, done purely out of consideration for him, genuinely touched him. It was the kind of warmth that reminded him: “there’s still goodness in the world.”
Lai Yudong had just sat down when the screen suddenly switched to a chart without any warning.
On the left side were the trainees from Group A, and on the right, Group B. The names were listed vertically from top to bottom, with each row corresponding to members in the same position. The scores in the center were still blank.
Huang Yueru fidgeted nervously. “I’m not mentally prepared for this.”
Just as he said that, his score popped up.
Sub Rapper 1 —
17 : 31
Huang Yueru nearly fainted. “Why isn’t this going in order…”
Next were Luo Feiran and Zhou Rui’s results.
Sub Rapper 2 —
7 : 15
Sub Vocal 4 —
39 : 42
After three straight losses for Group A, Zhao Yifeng broke the streak, defeating Lin Xiao with a vote count of 117 : 92—a rematch of their lead vocal battle from the initial stage performance.
Luo Feiran commented enviously, “Good thing we had Zhao Yifeng on our team. Otherwise, we’d have been totally crushed.”
With each new score announced, Lai Yudong silently tallied the running total between the two groups. Coincidentally, at that point, both teams had exactly 180 votes in total.
Next came the main rapper position. Chu Tianyi secured a win with a 55 : 26 lead.
Although Group A was currently ahead by 29 votes, everyone knew the real turning point—and the widening gap—would come at the end. None of Group B’s three most popular members had had their scores revealed yet.
The Sub Vocal 1 matchup featured the two team captains: Shu Tengjie for Group A and Su Junzhe for Group B. But the vote difference was crushing—Shu Tengjie had 29 votes, while Su Junzhe racked up 111, nearly quadrupling him.
And that still wasn’t the most dramatic result.
For Sub Vocal 2, the score appeared as 2 : 100. Zeng Kai became the second trainee to receive a single-digit vote count. Even Luo Feiran had teammates patting him on the back for comfort, but in Zeng Kai’s case, the only response was the collective sharp gasp from the opposing team.
Only one matchup remained.
Lai Yudong was up against Group B’s center, original singer, and first-ranked contestant from episode one—every possible “buff” stacked on him. And yet, Lai Yudong felt a strange sense of inner peace, as if he’d already transcended the outcome. If his vote count surpassed Mo Li’s, it would practically be considered a broadcasting error on the production team’s part.
Still, after all the hard work he’d put in over the past few days, he quietly hoped the gap wouldn’t be too brutal.
A single-digit result seemed unlikely—after all, even the support signs lit up in the audience had outnumbered that, and the livestream comments frequently dropped phrases like “protect Yuzu” and “our poor little Yuzu.” He figured someone would vote for him out of pity.
If he could get forty votes, he’d be satisfied.
A little confidence—but not too much.
Then, in this already irreversible situation, the votes for Sub Vocal 3 were revealed—
Miura Yuki vs. Mo Li
138 : 138
“One hundred thirty-eight!?” Luo Feiran exclaimed in shock.
The previously dead-silent Group A instantly erupted. Zhao Yifeng and Zhou Rui rushed over, yanking the stunned Lai Yudong out of his seat and pulling him into a group hug, stacking onto him like a game of Jenga. It was as if they’d forgotten that even with a tie, they still couldn’t beat Group B.
Zhao Yifeng gave his teammate’s head a good-natured rub. “Not bad! Are you about to shoot straight to the top?”
Zhou Rui leaned over the seats to hug the group’s dark horse. “That was amazing, Yuki! You two actually tied!”
“……”
Lai Yudong’s mind was buzzing—he couldn’t process it right away.
How—how many votes?
Was there an extra “1” typed by mistake?
Yukiiiiii!!! Heck yeah !!