Chapter 40: Halftime Break (2)
Lai Yudong had once set himself a side quest: find Wi-Fi and listen to the original version of Lose Heart.
But in this closed-off filming environment where even their phones had been confiscated, achieving that goal was like reaching for the moon. He obviously couldn’t just stroll up to the program staff and ask for the Wi-Fi password like he was in a karaoke bar.
He had figured it was hopeless until the very end of the show—yet, as luck would have it, the opportunity dropped right into his lap.
His roommate, Li Xu, had secretly stashed away a phone.
Smuggling in a phone was against the rules. Even if Lai Yudong happened to get hold of it, he wouldn’t use it—unless it was for completing a side quest. Still, he wasn’t the type to butt in, much less lecture or rat someone out.
Besides, who was he to judge?
So what if someone sneaked in a phone? He had brought in an entire system.
Though, admittedly, the system might be less useful than a phone.
“What are you doing?” Li Xu gave him a wary once-over, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell me you also…”
He paused, suddenly enlightened. “Ran out of money for mobile data?”
“…No.”
Lai Yudong explained that he just wanted to connect his smart MP3 player to the internet to download a song. Li Xu agreed readily, for some reason looking faintly pleased, only reminding him over and over not to breathe a word about it.
Unspeakable little secret: +1
Lai Yudong went back to the dorm to fetch his smart MP3. At this hour, there were no bullet comments, and the dorm’s camera had been covered with one of Liang Zhisheng’s shirts—no one knew what sneaky business he was up to.
“It’s on. Password’s 707.” Li Xu kept poking his head out to check the hallway, terrified a second witness might appear. “Done yet? Come on, how can downloading a song take this long?”
“…It requires a membership.”
Aside from a few newly released songs by Xu Anxin, all the older tracks were grayed out—the rights were owned by other platforms—and the new ones required either a monthly subscription or a one-time purchase to download.
But the smart MP3 wasn’t advanced enough to jump to online banking for payment.
Li Xu was momentarily stumped. “Log into my account. I’ve got one.”
He snatched the MP3 from Lai Yudong, tapped away for a bit, and then, without leaving any room for discussion, downloaded the entire album in one go.
Lai Yudong, sharp-eyed, noticed that every song already had a red heart next to it, meaning the account had marked them as favorites long ago.
No wonder he’d seemed a little happy—the real Xu Anxin fan had been right beside him all along.
Well, well. Hiding pretty deep, aren’t we?
Lai Yudong couldn’t help recalling that on the first day he transmigrated, one of the reasons Li Xu had stepped in to shut down Zeng Kai might have been a sense of solidarity as fellow fans.
Honestly, it was pure luck he hadn’t been mistaken for a song-ruining anti-fan.
“All set.” Li Xu shoved the MP3 back into his roommate’s hands. Seeing the other boy’s delighted expression and hearing his thanks—without a single mention of the smuggled phone—he couldn’t help asking, “Don’t you have anything you want to ask me?”
Like what exactly he was secretly doing on his phone at this hour.
Or how he was so certain he’d make it to the next round.
Wasn’t it normal, after being separated from a phone for so long, to be brimming with curiosity about the outside world?
Lai Yudong shook his head. “Nope.”
He spent his days surrounded by bullet comments, overexposed to outside input as it was, and all his attention was already devoted to practice. He didn’t need a phone to get information or kill time.
Besides, letting him piggyback on the hotspot and use his membership was already doing him a big favor—he wasn’t about to trouble the guy further.
The only thing he was curious about was the trending topic the bullet comments had mentioned back in React’s first episode. But if his guess was right—and it was just his embarrassing debut stage going viral—he’d rather not know.
Ignorance is fearless. Ignorance is free from social death.
Li Xu let out a lukewarm “oh.” He stared at the light-blond-haired boy putting away his MP3 for a few seconds, then asked half-skeptically, “You really got dragged here because of KFC?”
Lai Yudong: “…”
Here it was—the same kind of classmate who’d ask what brand of spicy sticks you bought.
So the story had already spread online after all.
Lai Yudong had no way to deny it. He nodded heavily, resigned to carrying the ridiculous backstory the system had fabricated for him.
Li Xu pressed on, “So you actually thought you’d run into a scam gang and believed it?”
Lai Yudong: “…”
W–Was that… what he thought?
He didn’t even know himself.
He hadn’t experienced it at all! Was this something he could just answer casually?
Lai Yudong: [How should I answer this?]
System: [Answer however you like. But our recommendation is to say “yes” to avoid unnecessary trouble.]
Lai Yudong: [Why?]
System: [It’s a conclusion calculated from data.]
Lai Yudong was stunned—this crappy system actually had such an advanced function?
Hopefully it wouldn’t turn out to be as useless as those “Immoral Maps” that always planned the worst possible routes.
Although he didn’t fully trust it, since the system—usually indifferent to whether he lived or died—was actually offering concrete advice for once, he figured it was worth following.
After all, the system that had shoved him into this talent show was pretty much on par with a scam gang anyway.
So, once again, he admitted with heavy resignation, “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Lai Yudong: “?”
Say what earlier?
“Never mind… you’re actually pretty lucky.” Li Xu let out a small huff, speaking bluntly. “It’s easy to be an ordinary trainee, but it’s hard to be a qualified idol—and even harder to be an outstanding one. If you’re only here to try out a new profession, or if your ultimate goal is just to gain followers and become a livestream sales influencer, then forget I said anything.”
Then his tone shifted. “But if you have the will to stay on stage, this could very well be a turning point in your life. Effort and sincerity never betray those with determination. As long as you choose the stage, the stage will inevitably answer you back.”
With that, he patted Lai Yudong on the shoulder, as if encouraging him to make that choice. “Do your best. I hope I didn’t lend my hotspot and membership to the wrong person.”
Lai Yudong couldn’t help but smile wryly. “I’ll work hard.”
As expected of someone who would end the theme song with a string of dramatic hand signs—his words were both hot-blooded and embarrassingly chuunibyou.
It reminded him a little of his own middle school “Miura Yuki” phase, when he used that username online.
If only he hadn’t said all this in the bathroom, it would have been perfect.
…
The day after the first public performance recording, the trainees once again slipped into a rare, relaxed state. Most had expanded their social circles beyond just their roommates—either practicing singing and dancing together, chatting, or playing games. The number of people left alone had greatly decreased.
After finishing Jin Xiheng’s dance class—nicknamed “Gold Medal Mini-Class”—Lai Yudong was pulled away by Liu Qichu, who was calling out “Aeroplane chess, two spots left!” Along with him, Zhou Rui got roped in, and another star player, Liang Zhisheng, was already waiting in Dorm 707.
[Finally got an Aeroplane chess game going!]
[Wait, someone actually brought an Aeroplane chess set? Who’s that awesome?]
[Of course it’s Liang Zhisheng, lol]
[Thank goodness, I watched Werewolf all afternoon yesterday and I’m about to puke]
Apparently, Zhou Rui’s ten-person dorm had already fallen to the dark side and become the official Werewolf dorm. Anyone who wanted to play could just drop by during normal hours—and lately, it seemed those hours were starting to stretch deep into the night.
“I told you, Yuki and Zhou Rui would be done with class soon.” Liang Zhisheng spread the Aeroplane chess game sheet across the table, taking out the pieces and dice. “Hurry up, let’s play a few rounds before the director’s team comes to pull people away.”
Lai Yudong looked puzzled. “Pull people away?”
“Yesterday I went to ask the staff—ah! I’m taking the red pieces!” Liu Qichu dashed over to the seat by the red-flag corner, brimming with kindergarten-level energy.
Zhou Rui looked surprised. “The staff actually told you?”
[I still haven’t even learned everyone’s names and Liu Qichu is already on friendly terms with the crew?]
[He was doing that back during the theme song phase]
[I bet Liu Qichu can’t remember their names either, but he’s so naturally chatty no one notices]
[That’s not just extroverted—that’s a social terr*rist expert]
[Qichu, little brother, can you help me find out the debut lineup? This is important, thanks]
“Nope, I failed.” Liu Qichu sighed. “But they did tell me it’s not going to be two people per group this time—when it’s time, the announcement will just call your name.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than the hallway speakers crackled to life with a staff member’s voice:
“—Qu Xincheng, Pei Lan, Miura Yuki, please report to the first-floor recording room immediately. Repeating once more…”
Lai Yudong’s hand, halfway to grabbing the green pieces, froze mid-air.
[Yuki just sat down, lololol]
[What’s this recording for? They’re calling three people at once?]
[Maybe it’s to get them ready in advance]
“Hurry up and go, we’ll wait for you.” Liang Zhisheng passed him the green pieces. “They’re only starting to record materials this afternoon—it shouldn’t take long.”
“Okay.”
Because he moved so quickly, Lai Yudong was the first to arrive at the first-floor recording room—the same place where they’d filmed the mystery box challenge before.
He had thought they’d wait for everyone to arrive, or maybe record in the order the names were called, but instead, the staff immediately called him in without explaining what it was for.
Was this… another interview?
But hadn’t they just done interviews a few days ago?
Carrying a bit of confusion and nervousness, Lai Yudong carefully pushed open the recording room door. “Excuse me.”
What met his eyes was an empty space where all the tables and chairs had been cleared away, and every wall was covered with the official profile photos of all 101 trainees.
The scene looked exactly like the suspect and relationship chart wall from a major criminal investigation.
What… was this supposed to be?
Were they picking people for the second public performance ahead of time? But hadn’t the first elimination not even happened yet?
Could it be that he…
Had been preselected?!
[Ooh! My favorite segment!]
[Are they picking the “Visual Center”?]
[Looks like a visual vote for sure]
[Finally, time for Yuzu to dominate]
Lai Yudong: “…”
Sorry—he was thinking way too much.
Given his streak of bad luck, there was no way he’d ever get that kind of golden ticket from the capital.
And if it did happen, it would probably come with some disastrous debuff—like getting exposed for being backed by capital, having his competition results revoked, and then, just like in some other show, watching Climbing to Stardom’s producer get thrown in jail, ultimately turning it all into a major negative news scandal.
He had a clear understanding of just how unreliable the system was.
The next second, the live comments suddenly vanished, and the livestream was cut off.
To keep the audience in suspense, the production team only kept this short clip of his entrance; the final results would be released tomorrow in the form of a pre-recorded segment.
Viewers outside the screen were so frustrated they started cursing.
“Please choose the ‘visual center’ in your mind,” the production team, seated across from the wall of photos, explained the process. “Tear the headshot off the wall, bring it to the camera, and explain your reason. You can choose multiple people, or choose yourself.”
“Alright.”
Lai Yudong walked to the far right side of the photo wall and scanned from top to bottom, one by one. The headshots were small and tightly packed, making it inconvenient to search for anyone.
Although not all 101 trainees were strikingly good-looking—the production team didn’t have the ability to find that many with perfect visuals—there was no shortage of handsome faces. Picking out the very best-looking ones was no easy task.
After about half a minute, Lai Yudong slowly moved to the far left side, arms full of cards like he’d just finished shopping at a supermarket. One by one, he held them up to the camera and explained his reasoning.
“Good,” the director recorded the votes with a pen, then gave an OK gesture. “You can call the next person in.”