Chapter 72: The Third Performance (8)
The “Grotesque” group’s practice progressed in an orderly manner.
Aside from the difficulty of the song itself, this group didn’t encounter any other problems or conflicts. The atmosphere within the team was harmonious and friendly, everyone was in good health—at most, a little sleep-deprived and mentally worn out—especially referring to those poor souls struggling with the choreography.
Compared with the first performance, there was less drama. Compared with the second performance, there was less fun. “Calm and uneventful” was the most accurate description.
What turned out to be most unexpected happened outside the practice room.
On the second day after the third performance announcement, after dancing for several hours following lunch, the stagnant air left Lai Yudong feeling somewhat stifled.
Staying in a practice room where even in broad daylight the lights had to be on was like being shut inside a giant storage unit. Along with the sweat and the air, his emotions felt sealed up within. Dancing there gave him the illusion of being in a sauna.
During the break, Lai Yudong stepped out into the hallway for some fresh air, and also to ease the fatigue in his eyes.
The bare wooden walls always reminded him of the painful days of endless problem sets. That was one thing—but the mirrored walls, which expanded the sense of space, he didn’t really like. The mismatch between what he saw and the actual size of the room made him dizzy after practicing too long in front of the mirror.
Still, rest only applied to his body. He took his lyrics sheet out with him.
If he wasn’t practicing dance, he could practice singing—making himself a true master of time management.
Leaning against the window, Lai Yudong sang softly. Since noise wasn’t allowed in the hallway, his voice was barely louder than a mosquito’s buzz.
Not focusing on vocals this time, but on rap flow—the volume didn’t matter much.
He hadn’t been practicing long when he faintly caught the sound of voices.
The sound wasn’t very clear, like overhearing chatter from the next classroom while in the middle of a lesson. It seemed to be coming from the class at the end of the corridor.
He took off his headphones and glanced around, but didn’t notice anything unusual.
—Was it a sound from another floor?
Lai Yudong didn’t think much of it and was about to put his headphones back on to continue practicing rap.
Just then, that voice rang out again, louder and clearer than before:
“Lai—Yu—dong…!”
Lai Yudong: “?”
Was someone pranking him again?
His hand, which was holding the headphone to his ear, paused slightly. He looked around in confusion but still didn’t see anything.
In an empty hallway, a distant voice suddenly calling his real name, one word at a time, with great force—yet no figure to be seen—
No matter how he thought about it, it was eerie, wasn’t it?
Could it be that he was so tired he was hallucinating sounds?
After some effort, Lai Yudong dismissed the possibilities of time-travel or a prank, and finally located the source of the sound.
More precisely, it was beneath the window.
He pulled open the tightly sealed window beside him, looked out in surprise, and sure enough—not far away were fans hopping excitedly and waving at him, their figures shrunk to the size of sesame seeds under the double obstacles of height and distance.
The scattered fans in the distance were few, probably because most of them knew about his bizarre schedule and wouldn’t stake out his dismissal time.
[What’s Yu-baby looking at? Let mommy see too!]
[Sounds like a voice]
[Turn the volume all the way up, you can hear someone calling him]
[Don’t tell me he got caught by Yu-fans 233]
[Other fans mentioned there’s a spot where you can see part of the practice building’s hallway—it must be this place]
Well, that was educational.
It was Lai Yudong’s first time hearing about such a “feng shui treasure spot,” and also his first time being assigned to this particular practice room.
No wonder this hadn’t happened during rehearsals for the first two performances.
[I want to see the fans’ perspective]
[Wait a sec, wouldn’t it look exactly like that meme?]
[Run.jpg]
[Shut up!]
[It was actually kind of romantic, then suddenly switched to a goofy vibe hhhh]
Lai Yudong: …
That meme of pulling open a window with the words “Run Away,” right?
Reading the text version didn’t feel like much, but the moment he pictured the scene in his head, he almost burst out laughing.
But it also gave him an idea. He flipped over the lyrics sheet in his hand, pulled out the pen he always carried in his pocket—handy for jotting notes anytime—and doodled on the blank back side for a while. Then he held it up to show the fans outside the window.
The unexpected surprise made the crowd outside erupt with cheers, and fans quickly pulled out their phones to record the moment.
[Please, I’m begging the on-site fans to upload pictures to the forum! I’m dying of curiosity not knowing what Yuzu drew!]
[Yu-fans are the happiest fans in the world T^T…]
[Blind guess, it’s another heart – -]
[+1, Miura Yuki does this every single time, I’m sick of it already]
[? To the one above, if you can’t stand Yuzu, why are you watching his solo livestream feed?]
[gnps, as long as I’m not sick of it that’s what matters]
[After all, Lai Lai’s little heart gestures are his fanservice routine. Maybe they don’t always go viral, but every single time passersby ask to be recommended. It’s literally clickbait gold for marketing accounts! Something some people’s faves can only envy~]
[Don’t bother with the troublemakers, just report them]
[Yuzu, you’re really blowing up now, don’t forget that]
Faced with the bickering in the comments, Lai Yudong remained unruffled.
He was already used to this happening every so often, especially since the frequency had skyrocketed after their first win. Fans could start arguing over the strangest little things.
His mindset was pretty good though—as long as it wasn’t personal attacks or malicious curses, he didn’t get emo that easily.
Thank goodness for “green mode,” one of the system’s rare advantages.
Smiling, Lai Yudong waved goodbye to the fans outside the window. Then, shaking the lyrics sheet at the camera, he said: “Ran into some Starseekers.”
On the blank sheet was a cute little kaomoji—
^v^
Sorry, he really hadn’t expected it to turn out so coincidentally.
[Wow! That’s adorable!]
[Holy, I want to run into a handsome guy who’ll draw me a kaomoji too]
[Who was it just now that said it’d be a heart?]
[The idol himself slapped that guess down, satisfying in one word: awesome!]
[That clapback was way too fast kkkk]
…
If you asked the trainees which day during performance week was the most nerve-wracking apart from the actual stage, 99% of them would answer: evaluation class.
That was also Lai Yudong’s answer.
Thirty-five trainees sat in the classroom. This was the first time all groups were attending evaluation class together; in the past, lessons had always been split up by group.
With the numbers reduced, the process shortened accordingly.
Since the third performance was meant to test every aspect, the initiator, mentors, and professional instructors were all present, six of them seated in a row, the atmosphere heavy with tension.
Lai Yudong’s attention was fixed on the rap mentor. During the second performance, he had prayed desperately not to have the “honor” of being directly critiqued by Li Ke—only for it to be arranged for him within minutes.
Mentor Li Ke sat with his arms crossed. Although he was the least senior among the six, and even younger than some of the trainees, his sharp, venom-spitting tongue had earned him the title of ultimate big boss in everyone’s minds.
As an aside, Lai Yudong had once suspected there might be a family connection between Li Xu and Li Ke. Same surname, both two-character rappers, with similar personalities—it was hard not to link the two.
But then Li Xu had cut him off with a blunt “Are you insane,” putting that idea to rest.
The “Grotesque” group was scheduled last.
The four groups before them presented their practice results. Only the “Anonymous” group escaped unscathed; all the others got criticized to varying degrees.
The harshest scolding went to the “Moonlight” group—the atmosphere was so severe that even Lai Yudong felt nervous on their behalf.
But whether it was center Xu An or captain Pei Lan, their composure was so astonishingly steady that even after leaving the stage, the group’s mood didn’t sink at all—a testament to just how strong their mentality was.
No wonder Xu An had never once cried during the ranking announcements.
“There’s only one group left, right?” Fu Hanyu shuffled the order of his lyric sheets. “Grotesque—ah, this one’s written by a friend of mine. I’m really looking forward to your performance.”
“This group’s center also has a rap part, huh… oh? So you’re the center.” Li Ke glanced at Lai Yudong standing in the middle. “Come on, I’m really looking forward to this song.”
Dance instructor Cao Yan said calmly, “I hope you can surprise me again this time.”
[Wait, was Cao Yan also talking about Yuzu?]
[Emmm… during the second performance evaluation, I think Cao Yan also said something about looking forward to the next surprise…]
[Rip, the center’s parts were already a lot, and now before they even start, he’s become the teachers’ main focus]
[Help, I’m already nervous on Yuzu’s behalf]
Lai Yudong had already adjusted his mindset, but the sudden triple-dose of “expectations” almost made it hard for him to breathe. It felt as if what he was about to face wasn’t just a few pairs of eyes, but an X-ray scan.
Luckily, nervousness had less and less effect on him now. He and his teammates delivered an answer sheet no different from their usual rehearsals.
When the accompaniment stopped, everyone remained in place, breathing lightly, waiting for the teachers’ comments.
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Fu Hanyu broke the silence, his calm voice betraying no emotion: “Your group’s overall performance was the worst.”
[?]
[Am I blind, or deaf?]
[Huh?? Grotesque might not be the best of the five groups, but no way are they the worst, right?]
[Lmao, and this isn’t the worst?]
[At least they were better than Moonlight group]
[I smell the stench of a script]
[Here comes the reversal arc!]
[Pass the reversal arc to me, I’ll carry it all the way to debut]
Lai Yudong’s nerves were taut. The audience could treat this like a scripted show—but that didn’t mean he could foolishly do the same.
Even if Fu Hanyu exaggerated for the sake of the program, there had to be real problems for him to say that. If they had turned in a flawless, impeccable answer sheet, then the real test wouldn’t be theirs, but his acting skills.
The premise of a reversal arc was being able to catch the script.
“Your dance is messy. It looks busy, but I can’t tell what you’re busy with—like you’re just being dragged around by the music. In the group dance, everyone was doing their own thing. What, is your internet lagging?” Dance instructor Cao Yan struck the first blow.
Vocal instructor Jiang Xiaoting followed right after: “Vocals are supposed to be your group’s strength, but you not only failed to showcase it, you even let the dance throw it off.”
After critiquing the group as a whole, the mentors called out trainees one by one. The only person praised was Zhao Yifeng for his vocals—but then his dance received a million-ton critical hit from Teacher Cao Yan.
If you really wanted to count it, Li Xu’s rap was also praised, but Li Ke’s exact words were: “As long as we don’t let you write your own lyrics, it’s fine.”
Li Xu probably felt like it would’ve been better not to be praised at all.
“Miura Yuki.”
“Here.”
The first to speak was Li Ke, immediately calling out a heavyweight. This treatment made Lai Yudong sigh inwardly, bracing himself for harsh criticism.
Unexpectedly, Li Ke’s reaction was relatively mild.
“Your rap… if you’d only been at it for three or four days, then sure, it’s acceptable. A little natural talent, plus you clearly put in the practice, right?” Li Ke paused. “But it’s still far too far from my standards.”
He lifted his gaze toward the light-haired boy clutching at his hem, and through him, seemed to see a reflection of his own green self starting out.
“The moment you step on stage, no one cares whether you’re a newbie. No one’s going to investigate how long you’ve been practicing rap. And even if someone had that much free time, they wouldn’t lower the bar for you. They’d just tell you to get off the stage, practice properly, and come back later.”
“So, not up to standard.”
[Why do I feel like that wasn’t even that harsh?]
[Not harsh?? I was scared to death]
[Compared to his comments on the other boys, this is actually pretty okay. He’s basically complimenting Yuzu in a roundabout way]
[Li Ke probably appreciates Yuzu quite a lot—he even clapped back at some nasty people during the first public stage, that was so satisfying]
[I still remember him teasing Yuzu during the theme song evaluation, lol]
[Instant-rapper-slaying weapon]
[Suddenly remembering that Brother Bai is both a dance and rap position…]
[Shipping everything equally is the key to a balanced diet]
Lai Yudong deeply realized that human joys and sorrows truly don’t overlap.
He was on the verge of fainting from nerves, while the live chat was seriously analyzing all sorts of connections between him and the rap line.
As far as he knew, there weren’t even that many rap members compared to dance members!
“But—”
Li Ke suddenly shifted tone, propping his chin up in a lazy drawl:
“Singing four lines of rap isn’t that hard, right? Altogether that’s not even ten seconds. Practice properly over the next few days. If you can reach my minimum standard in the short term, good. If you can’t, then it just means you were slacking.”
Lai Yudong blinked, his brain CPU running at full speed to process the roundabout critique and suggestion.
Very quickly, he smiled gratefully. “Thank you, teacher.”
After the other instructors finished commenting on his dance and vocals, Fu Hanyu gave a concluding speech.
“Now that we’re in the later stages of the competition, the expectation isn’t just to show improvement, but to match the rising level of difficulty. Suppose your rate of progress is one, while the song’s difficulty is ten—giving you a week won’t be enough, right?”
“You’re among the trainees closest to debut. I believe you can prove your strength with the third public performance.”
“Keep it up—the one who’s always working the hardest.”
Dang