Trainee Ch.48

Chapter 48 Second Performance (3)

The first group meeting for Bloody wrapped up, and everyone immediately threw themselves into practice without a moment’s rest.

According to the plan, they had to finish choreographing their individual parts today. Tomorrow, they would string all the sections together into a complete dance.

Lai Yudong sat down in a corner with his MP3 player, leaving the open space for the others to move around freely. He laid the lyrics sheet facedown across his lap and, as usual, listened through the whole song once, dividing it into segments like the intro, chorus, and interlude.

After the first run-through, he started the second round, this time counting the beats.

Pen in hand, Lai Yudong made notes on the paper.

The first row was numbered one through eight, representing the eight beats.

On the following lines, he wrote down the instruments he could hear—drums, piano, guitar, and so on. Vocals could also be considered an instrument; he marked them on the corresponding beats like filling out a chart.

After finishing the notations, he rewound the track and checked everything again to make sure his notes were correct.

Normally, calling beats didn’t need to be this meticulous—but choreography was another matter.

For example, a move might first follow the drumbeat, then switch the very next second to match the glissando of the piano, then a line later sync with the lyrics instead.

Beginners tended to focus only on the obvious drumbeats, ignoring the other layers of music and the meaning of the lyrics. Dancers without a strong musical sense often fell into the same trap.

Listening to music also meant understanding music.

Since he couldn’t predict what choreography his teammates would come up with, the only thing he could do was comb through every detail. Luckily, he had a good memory, and beats followed patterns anyway. Memorizing everything wasn’t hard—it wasn’t like he had anything else to do in those idle stretches of practice.

Once he had smoothed out the whole song, Lai Yudong stretched back with a big yawn, pen still in hand. Keeping his head bent for so long had made his neck and shoulders ache a little.

He rubbed at his neck and glanced around the practice room.

Mo Li was wearing headphones, improvising movements to the music; Su Junzhe was obsessing over the same section of choreography again and again; Zhang Mingche was pacing in circles, thinking about moves; while Bai Xuanhe and Jin Xiheng huddled together, debating which move fit better.

Everyone was taking things seriously.

The comfortable atmosphere in the group made Lai Yudong once again feel grateful. Just as he was about to bury himself back into the music, out of the corner of his eye he noticed Jin Xiheng—having finished his discussion—heading out with one hand in his pocket and a water bottle dangling from the other.

Keen-eyed, Lai Yudong quickly stood up and reached out. “Let me help you.”

Jin Xiheng waved the hand holding the bottle. “No, no, it’s nothing, don’t trouble yourself.”

But Lai Yudong was faster—he hooked the bottle strap in a flash, and in the blink of an eye, the water bottle swung from its loop onto his own finger.

He grinned at the stunned Jin Xiheng and gave the bottle a little shake. “I can’t help you with the big stuff, but I can at least do the odd jobs.”

“Fine, fine,” Jin Xiheng said helplessly. “Then all water-fetching duties for the group are yours.”

“No problem.”

[The guardian of the water dispenser has arrived]

[Division of labor is crystal clear, hhh]

[Some choreograph, some fetch water]

[Yuzu’s move hooking the water bottle was so cool (totally missing the point)]

[With reflexes that quick, what a waste not to freestyle]

Lai Yudong: …

They were overestimating him.

And so, over the course of the afternoon, Lai Yudong made trip after trip between the practice room and the water dispenser at the end of the hallway. He even went as far as the cafeteria to fetch Su Junzhe his usual, unshakable choice—an iced Americano.

While he was there, he took a quick glance at the dinner menu. Seeing that his teammates looked dead set on not leaving until their choreography was finished, he worried about their stomachs.

He memorized all the dishes and went back to the practice room to report them one by one.

“Meal?” Su Junzhe took a sip of his Americano, then bent down to set it next to his water cup. “You know my usual—keep it simple and light. Thanks.”

Mo Li pulled himself away from the music for a moment. “Could you get me tomato scrambled eggs and braised chicken wings? Thanks.”

“I want a hotpot!” Bai Xuanhe raised his hand.

[You mean in your dreams]

[Go bring him the giant pot straight from the kitchen]

Lai Yudong pulled a troubled face. “That’ll have to wait until after elimination.”

Bai Xuanhe: “?”

“Pfft.” Su Junzhe couldn’t hold back a laugh. He covered his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes bending into crescents. “Brother Xuanhe, if you quit right now, you can have it. Forget hotpot—even the nine-square kind is fine.”

“Twenty-six keys works too,” Lai Yudong chimed in.

Bai Xuanhe: “That’s a phone keypad, isn’t it!?”

[Yuzu, shut up already hahaha]

[Strongly recommend editing a compilation of Yuzu’s outrageous one-liners]

After asking about everyone’s dinner preferences, Lai Yudong immediately set off. He ran up and down the stairs with a tray in hand several times, until he had finally carried all six meals back to the practice room in batches.

When everyone had finished eating, he carried the bowls and plates back to the cafeteria—again, in batches.

When he returned, he even remembered to wipe down the floor with wet tissues where the dishes had been placed, so no grease or sauce would be left behind.

[Yuzu is so thoughtful—he even thought to wipe the floor]

[That’s what you call top-notch service]

[Yuzu can remember everyone’s orders just by memory and carry trays up and down without spilling—he’s got real potential as a waiter]

[As expected of a Yuzu stan—already paving a backup career path in case debut fails]

[Honestly, waiter sounds more reliable than talent scout]

Lai Yudong thought to himself: …they saw right through me. He really had worked part-time as a waiter one summer.

But what was this about a “talent scout”? Had he missed some joke?

After a short rest post-dinner, everyone threw themselves back into practice. With Bloody looping in his headphones dozens of times, Lai Yudong hadn’t even tried to memorize the lyrics, yet he could already sing along with his eyes closed.

Just as he was casually about to listen once more, a teammate’s voice broke through the music.

“How far have you guys gotten?” Jin Xiheng pulled off his headphones. “I’ve finished choreographing my part and Yuki’s. Want me to teach it now? After I show you guys, I’ll run it again with him one-on-one.”

“Well, that’s fine, but…” Zhang Mingche hesitated, carefully asking, “You’ve already choreographed all of it?”

“Yeah.”

Bai Xuanhe let out a dramatic sigh. “He’s been dancing for over ten years—experience like that, how can we compare with us slowpokes?”

Su Junzhe looked up with a smile. “I’ve finished mine too.”

“See that, Xiao Su’s already done.” Jin Xiheng shot a sideways glance. “What about you, Xuanhe? How much have you churned out?”

“Rounded up? About half.” Bai Xuanhe raised his hand with a goofy grin, swearing, “I’ll finish it today, I promise! If I don’t, I’ll sleep here! No, wait—if I don’t finish today, I’ll march off to a hotpot place and eat nine-grid!”

[Quit gambling with yourself, Brother Bai]

[We should meet on finals night, not at a hotpot restaurant]

[Yuzu: Hotpot restaurant? I thought it was the phone repair shop?]

[Don’t make me laugh]

Jokes aside, no one slacked on practice. Nobody felt dissatisfied or voiced complaints about their own progress being interrupted—instead, everyone wanted to hurry up and learn the parts, so they could then focus on their own sections without distraction.

Once again, Lai Yudong couldn’t help comparing this to his first performance group.

Back then, Zeng Kai’s crew hadn’t needed to choreograph anything themselves. They just coasted along and learned a bit of singing in the meantime. But when told to break things down step by step, they all pulled long faces, as if someone had interrupted not rehearsal, but the defense of their graduate thesis.

Of course, getting eliminated in a talent show didn’t always mean you lacked ability. Even those with strong skills or great visuals could flop if luck and capital weren’t on their side. But still, some people did need to look at themselves for the reason.

He wouldn’t say more—it would only make him sound smug, like he was gloating.

“I choreographed the dance and formations together,” Jin Xiheng said, stepping in front of the mirrored wall. “I’ll first dance Yuki’s part. If you have better ideas, speak up—we’ll discuss it together.” He called out to the teammates behind him, “Who’ll play the music for me?”

“I got it.” Lai Yudong pulled out his headphones and adjusted the speaker volume. “Ready.”

The music started, and Jin Xiheng instantly slipped into performance mode.

Just like he had described earlier, the intro didn’t use any flashy steps or intricate details. It was the simplest choreography Lai Yudong had seen so far—but simple didn’t mean easy. The simpler the move, the more it tested one’s fundamentals and expressive ability.

In fact, it canceled out the advantage of someone like him, who could memorize moves quickly.

For instance, the opening required the center position to casually turn their head. At first glance, it looked like just a random nod to the beat. But in reality, it hit three distinct counts, each one demanding precision. Only with perfect control could it come off as natural—otherwise, it would look like someone with a stiff neck trying to stretch it out.

Take, for example, the part where you walk two steps forward while lifting your hand. The movement should exude the languid elegance of someone strolling through a ball with a wine glass in hand—not the exhausted shuffle of a corporate worker heading to the curb to hail a cab after overtime.

The line between an artful film and a slapstick comedy was razor-thin.

After teaching the intro section, the next step was to go over Jin Xiheng’s part as center. Before that, though, he called for a five-minute break.

He glanced at the light-blond boy squatting motionless in front of the mirrored wall. The dazed look on his face gave him pause.

With years of teaching dance behind him, Jin Xiheng knew his students’ emotions all too well.

He crouched down beside him. “So? Not too hard, right?”

Lai Yudong slowly raised his head, dark eyes meeting his. He pressed his lips together, and with a trace of embarrassment admitted, “It’s not hard. I’m just afraid I won’t do it well.”

That old fear of dragging everyone down surged up again.

If he became the weak link, it wasn’t just about whether the audience would scold him—what he worried more about was ruining the effort his teammates had poured into this stage.

“What are you panicking for?” Jin Xiheng’s tone carried both confidence and optimism. “It’s only the first day. You’ve been dancing pretty well already.”

He patted his own chest. “What kind of student haven’t I taught? Bring me that Xu An from your dorm—I could still get him to learn. And you think I wouldn’t be able to teach you?”

[Xu An: ? Stop dragging me into this]

[Suddenly I want to see Xu An in the dance group]

[Wanting to see everything will only be your downfall]

“It’s not about whether I can learn it or not,” Lai Yudong chose his words carefully. “I’m afraid the gap between my floor and ceiling is too big, and that it might…”

Before he could finish, a hand ruffled his hair, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Yuki, don’t overthink it,” Jin Xiheng said as he drew his hand back. The bright smile in his eyes glittered like flecks of diamond. “What you need to do is charge forward without hesitation—to fully enjoy the music and the stage. Leave the reviewing and reflecting for after it’s all over.”

Like a mentor and a friend, Jin Xiheng encouraged him: “Passion matters more than anything else.”

Lai Yudong stared at him for a few seconds before quietly correcting, “That was Su Junzhe talking nonsense.”

Back then, in order to “sell” him and hitch a ride into the elite dance class, Su Junzhe had hyped him up with wild exaggerations. But the truth was, he didn’t love dancing. He only felt like he’d been repeatedly tormented by it.

“Really?” Jin Xiheng sounded surprised. “The way you look on stage, I thought you enjoyed it.”

Lai Yudong shook his head. “That’s different.”

Whether it was effort paying off or being adored under the spotlight—those were things worth celebrating for most people, but they had little to do with dance itself. Swap it for singing, acting, or runway modeling, and it would feel the same. Not to mention, he carried the burden of the system’s assigned tasks.

If he truly liked dancing, he wouldn’t have skipped dance school—he would’ve at least signed up for a basic interest class.

“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.” Jin Xiheng grabbed the light-haired boy and pulled him up from the floor. “If I thought you couldn’t do it, would I have given you the entire intro? And nobody else objected either! That means not only do we not look down on you—we actually trust you a lot!”

The more he spoke, the more fired up he became: “Your face is our team’s ultimate weapon! If I looked like you, even if I were doing some folk ritual dance, I’d still feel like the most handsome guy in the world!”

Lai Yudong: “…”

That was… a bit much.

“What are you two up to?” Bai Xuanhe happened to pass by and asked.

“Someone’s gone all shy,” Jin Xiheng spread his hands helplessly. “Come on, say something nice to cheer Yuki up.”

Without hesitation, Bai Xuanhe turned around and called out, “Xiao Su, quick, come over here!”

[Brother Bai, do you have some kind of misunderstanding about what ‘saying something nice’ means?]

[Does talking with… flair count as saying it nicely /doge]

[Won’t Yuzu get even more shy if he hears it?]

Seeing the curly-haired boy lift his head with a smile, Lai Yudong hurried to cut him off—he knew all too well how dangerous Su Junzhe’s words could be. “No need—I-I’m very cheerful!”

“Oh, really?” Bai Xuanhe gave him a once-over, confirmed he seemed fine, then waved his hand again. “Xiao Su, forget it! Go back!”

Su Junzhe: “?”

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