Chapter 42: First Ranking Announcement (1)
A few days ago, after going through a nerve-wracking haunted house scare, most of the trainees had grown wary of any filming notices from the production team, afraid they might once again be caught off guard by some mischievous prank and end up embarrassing themselves on camera.
There were a few bold exceptions—such as Lai Yudong.
Aside from running around to crash classes and practice every day, what he looked forward to the most was filming the material segments arranged by the production team. These were the most important official shots aside from the stage performances: not only were they easier than singing and dancing, but winning some of the little games could even earn you exclusive rewards.
With the voting channel for the first round about to close, he had to showcase himself as much as possible.
If skill isn’t enough, then hustle makes up for it!
And so, in the one-minute step count challenge, Lai Yudong doubled the step total of his nearest competitor and won the selfie perk, leaving his teammate Liang Zhisheng stunned.
Liang Zhisheng was pretty sure it wasn’t just his imagination—his roommate was becoming more and more lively.
Compared to the “cool guy” from the initial evaluation who barely spoke in full sentences and relied on physical gestures, he now talked more, smiled more, and seemed more cheerful. Liang Zhisheng didn’t know if it was the stage’s influence or the fans’—but it definitely wasn’t from his first-performance teammates.
It could also just be that Yudong had gotten through his awkward adjustment period.
The day before the ranking announcement, the production team temporarily returned the confiscated phones to the trainees so they could call their families—but only for ten minutes.
[They’re really going to pull the emotional-tearjerker card this time]
[I’ve got my tissues ready]
[The moment I hear “family,” I know it’s going to hurt…]
Lai Yudong held the phone he hadn’t touched in three weeks in a daze.
The long-lost feel of it made him feel like some caveman who’d been living in a cave—he was even clumsy swiping to unlock the screen.
The familiar phone case, the familiar lock screen, the familiar app layout.
Even the photos in the gallery were exactly the same as he remembered.
Lai Yudong: [Is this my phone?]
System: [Yes. I brought your phone from your original world along with you.]
…So it turned out he wasn’t truly alone—he was a man with a machine.
After reacquainting himself with this high-tech marvel of modern humanity, Lai Yudong set the phone aside and didn’t touch it again.
The system had explained from the start: this was a parallel world. It was like creating a brand-new game account and importing his data—
or, in less flattering terms, like an undocumented migrant sneaking in and getting a fake ID.
Taking a huge step back, even if the “parents” of this world somehow sprouted a new son out of nowhere, there was no way both parents of a supposed “foreigner” could be Chinese. Was he supposed to claim he’d been adopted?
From the moment his name had been entered wrong, the logical contradictions had been piling up to the point where it hurt to think about. There was no way the system was so kindhearted as to fill in all the details for him. The only thing he could do was make sure he didn’t create any more plot holes.
It was like a programmer writing code—sometimes a bug-riddled program somehow ran just fine, but the moment you changed anything, it crashed.
Worried that being the only one not making a call would make him stand out, Lai Yudong looked up—only to find that no one in the dorm was on the phone.
He asked cautiously, “You’re… not calling?”
Liang Zhisheng’s strained relationship with his family made sense. Li Xu could at least be explained by the fact he’d secretly kept a phone.
But why hadn’t even Xu An made a call?
Liang Zhisheng: “Ah, I might be eliminated tomorrow.”
Li Xu: “Saves you from bawling into the phone and acting all pretentious.”
Xu An: “My grandma’s probably asleep at this hour. I don’t want to disturb her.”
“You’re not calling either?” Liang Zhisheng asked casually.
Li Xu jumped in before Lai Yudong could answer: “His family probably doesn’t even know he’s on a talent show.”
“Mm.” Lai Yudong nodded quickly—perfect, no need to make up an excuse himself.
[So tragic—an entire room of left-behind kids]
[Why don’t they just check their rankings online while they’re at it?]
[The show doesn’t allow it. Who would dare blatantly break the rules on camera?]
[What a waste of a chance to have a phone]
Liang Zhisheng gave his two chummy roommates a puzzled look. “Since when did you two get so close you share stuff like this?”
Li Xu refused to admit it. “Haven’t we always been like this?”
“Alright, alright, whatever you say.” Liang Zhisheng tossed his phone onto the table. “Might as well start packing my things so I can roll my suitcase out the moment I get eliminated tomorrow.”
“What’s the rush? What if you make it? Then you packed for nothing.”
Liang Zhisheng had no illusions about his ranking. “I’m only fifty-fourth, we lost in the first performance, and I wasn’t even center. Isn’t that basically a guaranteed ‘game over’?”
With every sentence Liang Zhisheng said, Lai Yudong felt like he was taking another hit—three debuffs stabbing into him like invisible arrows, leaving him only able to weakly murmur, “Same here…”
“With your high on-site vote count, there’s no way you’re leaving yet.” Maybe because he was convinced he’d be eliminated, Liang Zhisheng spoke with reckless abandon on camera. “Besides, you’re the visual center. They’re not letting you go this early. Worst, worst, worst case scenario, they’ll keep you around until the third performance just to milk it.”
“R-really?”
[You really do understand the production team]
[True, if Yuzu gets eliminated it’ll definitely hit the trending list. Once the visual center’s gone, casual viewers will just think this show’s full of ugly people]
[Be bolder—the worst outcome is Yuzu debuting right at the cutoff]
Lai Yudong: “…”
…Wasn’t that a bit too bold?
It was normal for fans to have expectations, but debuting at the cutoff…
That was seventh place!
Wouldn’t that take a miracle to achieve?
Even though he could feel that his popularity seemed genuine, no matter how optimistically he tried to estimate his ranking, the highest he could imagine was maybe thirtieth.
If he wasn’t so optimistic, well… it’d be straight elimination.
After all, he hadn’t earned any bonus votes in the first performance, and that made a huge difference for anyone in the mid-to-lower rankings.
…
Thursday evening, 6 p.m.—the live broadcast of the first ranking announcement began.
There were three entrance tunnels in total, with trainees from the same company walking in together. Each person had to stop in front of the camera for a few seconds and strike a pose.
Lai Yudong was among the earlier entrants. Alone, he greeted the camera with easy familiarity, making his signature “heart over the head” gesture, then went to sit in the seat the production team had assigned him.
Only then did he realize that a lot of people’s “everyday” actions were… uh… quite something.
Mo Li led the Si Jia “Five Boys” in performing a Thousand-Hand Guanyin. Jin Xiheng and Pei Lan danced a gorilla routine facing each other. Wang Yiwen lay on the floor while Chu Tianyi rolled him in like a sushi roll, and Jiang Yangfan was carried in sideways by Yu Yizhen and Zhang Mingche.
Some trainees also showed off individual talents—for example, Bai Xuanhe, who tumbled acrobatically all the way from the entrance, and Li Xu, who brought his own “transformation device” and acted out a full Kamen Rider–style transformation.
[They’re really working hard just to be remembered…]
[The absurdity level is skyrocketing]
[I watched each group carefully and didn’t remember a single person—just keywords like “gorilla” and “transformation device”]
[There are barely any normal people left on this show!]
Lai Yudong was stunned—he had to admit, he was a bit inexperienced in this area.
So you didn’t have to “sell yourself” in front of the camera? You could just… be a comedian?
And weren’t poses supposed to be still? Since when could they be moving? You could start acting from the moment you walked in?
That meant he’d totally missed out!
Still, he couldn’t pull off those weird and wacky entrances on his own. The only idea he could think of was writing a calligraphy piece on the spot.
By the time he finished, though, the rankings would probably already be over.
Once all the trainees were seated, the host, Fu Hanyu, entered. After delivering a string of opening lines, he got straight to the point:
“First, we’ll announce the trainees ranked fifty-fourth to forty-fourth. As for fifty-fifth place, it will be revealed after we announce eighth place.”
[So cruel—deliberately leaving a suspenseful “cut-off” spot]
[Give people hope only to tell them they didn’t even make the cut]
[This is exactly the kind of drama the show wants]
Before announcing each rank, Fu Hanyu would hold the fate-deciding cue cards—like some kind of Book of Life and Death—and read a short description provided by the production team.
“Fifty-fourth place.”
“This trainee’s initial stage performance was lacking, but with their personal charm…”
The more Lai Yudong listened, the more convinced he was they were talking about him. Every detail seemed to match. Sure, the rank was a bit low, and he probably wouldn’t last another round, but he couldn’t ask for too much—if he could scrape by one more time, that was a win.
“Congratulations, Liu Qichu.”
…Ah. Sorry. Guess he’d gotten ahead of himself.
“Fifty-third place…”
…
“Forty-first place…”
…
“Thirty-seventh place.”
“This trainee is a member of the beloved Dorm 707…”
Lai Yudong jolted upright in his seat.
That had to be him—they were even saying his dorm number! How was that any different from announcing his full ID?
“Congratulations, Li Xu.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
He, who had nearly stood up, quickly pretended he was just stretching his legs. He’d only gone numb from sitting too long—nothing else.
It was fine. A roommate making it through was still a good thing.
But then, for the next dozen or so rankings, several descriptions again felt like they were aimed at him… and every single time, the name belonged to someone else.
Hope rose and fell over and over again.
The seats around him grew emptier, and the most optimistic rank he’d predicted for himself—thirtieth—drew closer and closer. With each name that wasn’t his, his anxiety deepened.
It was basically the upgraded version of the second evaluation.
“Thirty-fourth place.”
“This trainee is from ‘Peppermint’ Group A…”
Lai Yudong’s eyes lit up. This time it had to be him!
If they hadn’t specified which team, he wouldn’t have been so sure.
But now that they’d narrowed it down to A group, and knowing their group’s ranks were generally low, Lai Yudong felt certain they were talking about him.
This rank was higher than he’d expected—he’d better start crafting a good acceptance speech in his head.
“Congratulations, Chu Tianyi.”
…Right. He’d forgotten there was still one mid-tier teammate in the group.
It was like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Lai Yudong instantly sobered. Maybe he was just too anxious and had lost his usual calm. He took a deep breath, leaned back in his seat, and forced himself to relax.
The remaining ranks? Not worth worrying about.
His final bet was on the soon-to-be-announced 55th place—the last card slot to advance.
If he didn’t even get the card seat, then before the “instance change,” he’d at least ask Jiang Yangfan for an autograph. Whether or not he could take it back to his original world, he’d prepare it for his mom anyway.
The ranking announcements continued.
[Qin Xu dropped so much—weren’t Thai fans supposed to be strong in voting?]
[Crying… Yu Yizhen can’t drop any further, please… Just pick a song in the second public match that fits your style…]
[27 → 14? Brother Bai is insane!]
[What the hell? Song Yanxi fell out of debut range? He was fifth before! Who shoved him out??]
[OMG even Xiao Qu dropped—who’s still in the top seven now?]
[It’s probably Yin Zizhen who made it in.]
[Who’s the other one in debut range now?]
[Did someone just skyrocket?]
The higher the ranking got, the livelier the discussion in the livestream comments became.
Spacing out, Lai Yudong barely read a few of them, but noticed someone mentioning that a contestant had “soared” up the ranks. With nothing better to do, he counted the promoted and pending contestants — it seemed the top group couldn’t even fill all seven debut spots.
Who was that amazing, to jump straight from the back of the pack into a debut position?
He felt just a little envious.
By the time they announced No. 8, Qu Xincheng, all the seats in the area around Lai Yudong were empty, leaving him sitting there all alone.
He adjusted his posture and sat up straight.
If he ended up being No. 55, he couldn’t afford to look too lazy when the camera swept past.
“Now announcing the 55th place. There are a total of four trainee candidates, whose names will be shown on the big screen.”
Lai Yudong stared intently at the screen in front of him. In his ears he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat, and the fabric clenched in his palm felt like the last lifeline he had left.
Please.
Please, please let me be one of the four candidates.