Chapter 86: The Third Elimination
Wei Lai admitted he did it on purpose, saying Zhu Zhu was purely to avenge that one hit on the butt.
As for Rong Ruize—
Although Wei Lai already had a bad impression of him due to his mistake in the third public performance, this time it was simply because he cried so hideously—it was downright creepy to look at.
Fu Xunying, on the other hand, found the whole thing rather amusing. He’d only just returned and already got to watch a bit of drama. Casting a glance at the “Crouching Dragon” and “Phoenix Chick” duo, he chuckled and said, “Alright, let’s go.”
Wei Lai: “Go, go.”
Yue Zhaolin and the others left, leaving the two pale-faced men standing there. Each felt the other had just witnessed their embarrassment, and they instantly found each other even more unpleasant to look at.
They parted on bad terms.
When Yue Zhaolin entered the studio, there were already more than a dozen trainees inside. Everyone tactfully avoided bringing up the recent online uproar, greeting him with warm smiles.
Warmer than before.
This round was a 36-to-18 cut—once half were eliminated, it would be the finals. So, in the tiered seating of the studio, only eighteen spots were left.
Fu Xunying sat down in his assigned seat, then suddenly remembered something and turned to ask Yue Zhaolin beside him, “Oh right, what are you planning to do about your hair?”
Originally, it had been dyed silver-white, which looked fine after some upkeep, but lately it seemed to have yellowed a bit, and a lot of black roots had grown out.
Yue Zhaolin brushed the fringe over his forehead. “I’m dyeing it back to black today.”
It just so happened that tonight’s VCR shoot also included a promotional segment for Youth Day on May 4th—black hair would look cleaner and more proper.
He had actually wondered if he’d run into the same situation Cen Chi had before—after dyeing his hair black, even his sweat came out black.
The makeup artist said it was normal—because the first one to two weeks after dyeing is the pigment stabilization period, any high-intensity exercise that causes sweating will inevitably cause the color to fade. Once the color sets, it’ll be fine.
While they were talking, Tan Shen arrived. Seeing Yue Zhaolin looking perfectly normal, he finally let out a breath of relief.
Tan Shen had braced himself for the worst outcome, even thinking Yue Zhaolin might refuse to record at all, so the past two days he’d been like an anxious eunuch fretting while the emperor stayed calm.
In the end, all his thousand thoughts boiled down to just one sentence: “As long as you’re back.”
Before long, Cen Chi also arrived.
Alongside him came Rong Ruize, who, sticking to his original plan, performed another round of his “Although I was sick and delayed the stage, I still feel deeply guilty” crying act.
This time, he actually cried for real.
A group of trainees gathered around to express concern—everyone knew perfectly well whether his illness was real or fake, but staying indifferent in front of the cameras wouldn’t look good.
Fu Xunying watched his crying face for a moment, then leaned toward Yue Zhaolin’s ear and voiced his puzzlement: “The shape of his mouth… it’s so strange.”
Yue Zhaolin: “Like a type-C charging port?”
Fu Xunying’s eyes lit with understanding.
“That’s it.”
Tan Shen: “Pfft.”
The few of them huddled together laughing, and before long, all thirty-six chairs had been gradually filled. The previously spacious venue was now lively and buzzing.
The trainees designated as the “atmosphere team” by the production crew quickly took on the given task and began acting right away.
“The third elimination will leave only half of us—what should I do? I really want to make it to the finals.”
“I want to know what to do too. After all, my ranking last time was already dangerously low.”
Suddenly, someone grabbed the arm of the trainee next to them, eyes wide as they looked toward the studio door. “Wow, is that PD Li coming?!”
The surrounding gazes instantly fixed on the main door, which slowly opened.
A tall, slender figure walked in—not Li Ying, but Shao Meng.
“Ahhh, it’s Teacher Shao Meng—”
Didn’t matter who it was—they were all called “Teacher.”
Walking up onto the stage amid cheers and screams, Shao Meng wore a warm smile and greeted all the trainees. “Hello everyone, we meet again.”
“Today, PD Li has another engagement, so I’ll be filling in for him.”
Atmosphere team: “Welcome, Teacher Shao!”
Shao Meng glanced at Yue Zhaolin. Originally, he had been feeling unsettled—after all, as a senior and junior from the same company, Yue Zhaolin hadn’t chosen him during the third public performance.
But the shock brought by the company and GrapeFruit’s reaction had suppressed his dissatisfaction.
With Yue Zhaolin, it was still best to maintain friendly ties.
Shao Meng: “Alright, let’s get straight to the main topic—our third elimination. Only the trainees who remain will be able to participate in the live broadcast of the finals.”
“This time, the announcement order will be different. Instead of starting from thirty-sixth place, we’ll start from… eighteenth place.”
The studio erupted in surprise.
“Doesn’t that mean if your name isn’t called at all, you’re just directly eliminated—without even a chance to give a farewell speech?”
“This round is way too brutal.”
Amid the commotion, Shao Meng remained unfazed. “Now then, let’s announce the eighteenth place.”
Perhaps to build suspense, he kept his descriptions of the trainees vague, with each adjective potentially fitting several people.
Shao Meng announced five or six names in quick succession, “sweeping through” a large swath of trainees.
In particular, the trainee sitting just behind Yue Zhaolin to his left got “walked” through several rounds of teasing keywords, growing so frustrated that they let out a snort like a buffalo.
Yue Zhaolin couldn’t help but turn his head to glance back.
The other person didn’t notice Yue Zhaolin’s glance. His nostrils flared as he stared intently at Shao Meng on stage, his whole face practically reading: Don’t b*lly honest people.
Yue Zhaolin: “…Ahem.”
He thought, the production team was definitely doing this on purpose, purely for the show’s effect.
On stage, after selling the suspense long enough, Shao Meng finally announced the fourteenth place:
“6,376,052 votes—Ao Liang’ao.”
Ao Liang’ao, better known online for branding himself as “Orleans” on Douyin, had moved up one place compared to the last round after his performance of Crane Bell in the second public stage.
The names that followed included a few people Yue Zhaolin was familiar with.
“Thirteenth place, Chen Wu, 5,485,365 votes.”
Chen Wu had chosen a poor song for the second public stage, which limited his performance, so he’d expected his ranking to drop. Fortunately, it hadn’t fallen too much—once the third public stage aired, he still had a shot.
“Twelfth place, Wei Lai.”
“Eleventh place, Deng Yangbing.”
…
“Eighth place, Mao Ding.”
Eighth place’s “Right Guardian” and twelfth place’s “Left Guardian” both couldn’t help but display smiles that were on the verge of collapsing.
Both of these trainees had been picked up by Tide, and netizens would later jokingly call their meeting “The Century Encounter Between the Monkey and the Non-mainstream Guy”—but that’s a story for later.
Starting from seventh place, the vote counts broke past the ten million mark.
“Seventh place, Rong Ruize.”
“Sixth place, Zhu Zhu.”
Mm, that pair could also be called the “Century Encounter of the Crouching Tiger and the Phoenix Chick.”
“Fifth place, Fu Xunying—13,983,613 votes.”
“Fourth place, Chu Li—15,115,736 votes.”
“Third place, Cen Chi—15,789,653 votes.”
“Second place, Tan Shen—17,113,298 votes.”
In the previous round, Tan Shen had also been in second place, but back then the gap between him and third place was nearly four million votes. This time, the difference had shrunk significantly—to just over one million.
Several trainees exchanged glances. Yue Zhaolin’s fans stopping their heavy spending hadn’t really hurt Yue Zhaolin at all—instead, the one most affected turned out to be Tan Shen.
That was a true “leg pendant.”
A few of them couldn’t help sneaking looks at Tan Shen’s expression.
But Tan Shen didn’t feel embarrassed. He knew himself well—aside from rap, he didn’t have much to show off. Even making it into the top ten was already more than he deserved.
If you’re just being carried along, you might as well be secretly thrilled at getting votes—why ask for more?
Shao Meng smiled. “For first place, I think everyone’s already guessed—once again defending his crown, trainee Yue Zhaolin. Please come up to the stage.”
It was the least suspenseful ranking of all.
Everyone smiled, with a hint of admiration for someone they knew they could never surpass.
As Yue Zhaolin walked up beside him, Shao Meng said with a smile, “Congratulations, Yue Zhaolin. Including the zeroth round of voting, this is your fourth time taking first place.”
A face with long-lasting appeal, a future in the spotlight, and the love of fans—this was truly a star with limitless potential.
Whatever Shao Meng might have felt inside, outwardly he stuck to the script: “Zhaolin, you might not know this yet, but this time’s first place is different.”
He drew in a quick breath. “The third-round voting total has broken into nine digits, creating a new record in Starlight history. First place, Yue Zhaolin—
One hundred and one million, three hundred and seventy thousand, nine hundred and ninety-five votes!”
“Holy crap!”
“Over a hundred million!”
The trainees present had always known that Yue Zhaolin’s votes alone could rival the entire upper tier in a given round, but this time’s result still left them stunned.
In the first round, he had 30 million votes; in the second, 60 million; and in the third, he directly broke 100 million. Yue Zhaolin’s vote count could truly be described as steadily climbing.
If the voting channel hadn’t been closed and the vote pool reset for the final one-pick round, the scene would have been brutal.
After all, even 9% of a hundred million is nine million—enough to crush a whole field.
“Please, trainee Yue Zhaolin, share your speech.”
Yue Zhaolin took the microphone, looked toward the camera, and said with a smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever said this before—but I am a su—per—vain person.”
His speeches never contained the usual scripted platitudes, because in this show, such moments were rare chances for trainees to truly speak their minds.
He never mentioned other trainees—he only said what he wanted to say.
Yue Zhaolin: “So, hearing cheers for me makes me happy. Seeing banners with my name makes me happy. And getting first place in the votes makes me even happier.”
Those were affections given to him alone, and each time they left him “fully loaded” with joy.
No one dislikes being someone’s favorite.
Looking toward the pitch-black camera, his smile brightened. “I want to tell everyone something—but if I say it now, I’ll have nothing left to say on finals night.”
“So, let me keep this ‘secret’ for now. I’ll say it out loud on the finals night.”
In the shot, Yue Zhaolin’s eyes sparkled, full of anticipation, as he said, “So—thank you for your votes and your love. See you at the finals!”
It was a secret everyone already knew, but he just wanted to save it for the live broadcast night.
Tide had spoiled him.
=v=
Shao Meng raised an eyebrow—he hadn’t expected Yue Zhaolin to say something so “un-idol-like,” yet somehow it didn’t spark any dislike at all. In fact, it came across as sincere.
The second elimination had also been hosted by Shao Meng, and at that time, Yue Zhaolin’s speech had been just as “unconventionally creative.”
In Shao Meng’s view, the essence of an idol was that they were a commodity—but one that had to carry a “human touch” to mask the emptiness inside. Yue Zhaolin balanced those two aspects perfectly.
Good-looking, intelligent, and backed by a company willing to promote him—it was only natural he was being pushed to the top.
Yue Zhaolin bowed to the camera, and the trainees all burst into applause.
Once the applause died down, the director spoke: the eliminated trainees couldn’t stay here, so this group had to leave first.
Before leaving, they needed to shoot scenes of “parting with teammates,” “the cruelty of survival shows,” and “eliminated trainees wheeling their suitcases away.”
For a while, the studio was filled with teary farewells, but because Yue Zhaolin was present, it threw some people off—
Several trainees, after catching sight of Yue Zhaolin’s face mid-performance, froze halfway through their act. And not just one of them.
Yue Zhaolin tilted his head and asked Cen Chi, who was walking over, “Am I scary?”
But right after asking, he realized he’d asked the wrong person—Cen Chi was face-blind.
Chu Li, standing nearby, poked his head in and said, “I know. It’s just… acting in front of you feels stressful.”
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
Tan Shen grinned with a look of shared pride. “Yue Zhaolin, you really don’t know? To everyone else, you’ve always been the ‘final boss’ type.”
A bit of an exaggeration, but easy to understand.
In short, Yue Zhaolin’s aura was plenty strong.
As they spoke, a trainee came up quietly and said in a low voice, “…Zhaolin, sorry, but could I talk to you alone? Just for a minute.”
It was Chen Fei.
—He had been in the same group as Yue Zhaolin for the first public stage, with the persona of a “capable homebody.” He’d had a brief burst of popularity then, but the heat didn’t last, and this time he’d been eliminated.
Yue Zhaolin stood up. “Alright.”
Chen Fei hadn’t intended to hog any camera time, so he suggested going to the bathroom, but Yue Zhaolin wasn’t keen on that. Instead, he found a quiet corner where no one—and no cameras—could see them.
Chen Fei let out everything he’d been holding in at once:
“Zhaolin, I’m going to sign with a new company. Because of the first-stage concept you helped me come up with, the new company noticed me. I’m leaving tonight, and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to reach you later, so I came to bother you. I really want to thank you.”
Yue Zhaolin noticed he looked much more confident now, no longer constantly touching his surgically adjusted nose. “Congratulations. The concept was one thing, but the more important part is you yourself.”
“Mind telling me which company?” He found it a little odd—headhunting someone before the survival show even ended?
Chen Fei quickly said, “It’s Zhou Xiao’s company, Huanyin Entertainment.”
Zhou Xiao—the “Mango” from the world-famous meme picture.
Yue Zhaolin nodded. Huanyin wasn’t a small company, but why would they make a move so early?
Later, when Yue Zhaolin went to film a VCR segment, a Xingqiong assistant was there. Out of curiosity, he asked about it.
He got his answer—
Zhou Xiao had been eliminated in the second round, but he’d still become well-known. Although it was for being the “Mango,” Huanyin figured it would be a waste not to make use of that notoriety.
At that point, Huanyin’s higher-ups happened to see Chen Fei’s first-stage performance, and it occurred to them—wait, wasn’t this guy also in that famous meme picture?
“Top Idol with the Steamed Bun, the Non-mainstream Guy, the Mango, the Monkey, and a Lucky Audience Member Picked on Stage.”
Zhou Xiao, with his slight underbite, was the Mango.
Chen Fei, who’d just gotten his nose done at the time and had some fillers that made his face look puffy, was the Steamed Bun.
The Huanyin execs slapped the table—round up everyone! The famous picture would be… reassembled!
Now they were just missing a Monkey or a Non-mainstream Guy—form them into a three-member boy group, debut them alongside Starlight’s nine-member group.
Guaranteed to blow up.
Yue Zhaolin: “…Mm. Very business-minded.”
Lol smart?