Chapter 104: Solo Performance
[Why is the audience suddenly screaming?]
[What happened?]
On the livestream, the camera was on host Wei Feizhang speaking, but the barrage of comments reacted urgently to the background noise, as if they’d just missed the juiciest gossip.
What are they shouting about? What did they see?
While Wei Feizhang was giving his lengthy introduction, someone searched up the keywords and found the “culprit” on the #Starlight# plaza.
Yue Zhaolin, along with the other trainees, had formed a sizeable circle, all facing the center of the stage, holding their starting dance poses.
[Are those Adidas clothes?]
[I always thought the new design was ugly, but somehow it looks good on him?! Fashion really is all about the face…]
[Even five-inch shorts don’t look disastrous on him.]
[Wait, does no one think his ankles look amazing? I just want to reach out and grab them.]
[…Is everyone only looking at his face?]
[Lower your gaze.]
[Long, straight, pale legs—youthful and powerful at the same time… I never had a leg-fetish attribute, but now it’s being awakened.]
[Face, body, personality… exactly which window did God close on him?]
[The window of loving me.]
[…That’s so tacky, Tide-sis! And aren’t you humble-bragging here?]
Wei Feizhang: “As you know, public performances are group-based, so most trainees can’t fully showcase their strengths.”
“So, next will be the individual stage for eighteen trainees—a solo performance to let the Starlight Producers here see their true selves.”
With no restriction on format, the solo stages maximize each trainee’s charm.
“Producers, please welcome tonight’s stars with your applause—”
Amid the thunderous screams, the livestream camera cut back to the trainees on stage.
Before the solos began, there was a group routine lasting less than a minute. The moment the music started, all the trainees turned in unison, facing the camera.
Led by Yue Zhaolin, the group dance began—once again skillfully using him to draw in the audience.
[Next time there’s going to be such a close-up, could you give us a warning? I literally gasped.]
[Ahhhhhhh—]
[It’s starting!]
The choreography wasn’t difficult. Since the team had more than one slacker, those who danced well got full-body shots, and those who didn’t only had close-ups.
The editing team did their best to cover it up, but some people in the comments seemed to be watching with a magnifying glass.
[Some people are dancing like demons possessed…]
[Director, can we get more shots of Yue Zhaolin? My eyes need cleansing.]
[I want to say something, but it feels a little inappropriate in public… Director, could you film Yue Zhaolin’s legs?]
[…Just say you’re thirsty.]
[Unbelievable. Even with the camera cutting away like petals scattering, you still can’t hide some people’s clumsy dancing.]
[Grab a random newbie who’s only taken three classes in a studio and it’d look about the same.]
[@Rong Ruize, don’t think hiding in the back makes you invisible. Your limbs are flailing like they’re about to fly off—no control at all?]
[And you, Zhihu Bro, what’s with that praying mantis boxing dance?]
[Even Tan Shen easily crushes these two.]
The group dance ended quickly. Everyone knowingly ran off to the back of the stage, leaving only Tu Kai, who was ranked eighteenth, to start his performance.
—This time, the solos were performed in reverse order.
Tu Kai performed a dance to a rearranged English hit song. He was so nervous that his face went completely stiff, like he was dragging around a scowl the entire time.
As expected, the audience’s reaction was lukewarm, which in turn dragged down the energy for the next trainee as well.
Even though the camera crew tried their best to make the stage look flashy and explosive, the atmosphere kept dropping lower and lower.
Some thin-skinned viewers were so embarrassed just watching through the screen, it felt like they were about to scratch out a whole three-bedroom apartment.
[What is happening today? So many people are performing way below their usual level, everyone looks so tense, like there’s no performance management at all.]
[Is the nervousness contagious?]
[Not good to watch…]
[Several trainees aren’t even looking at the camera.]
[The atmosphere’s dead.]
[Of course it’s cold when Tide’s around—their group only cheer for Yue Zhaolin and don’t care about any of the other trainees.]
[Whether or not Tide is obliged to clap isn’t the point. Were you even at the venue? The whole crowd’s flat, but you’re just pinning it on them?]
[So you’re assuming the entire audience is Tide? Fine by me. 😬]
The colder the venue got, the hotter the barrage became.
[Fans are forever young, forever fighting.]
[Mm… eternal truth.]
After each trainee finished performing, they would stand at the edge of the stage.
Behind the camera, in the corner waiting for his turn, Yue Zhaolin focused intently on whoever was performing, silently counting down the ranks in his head.
Twelfth, eleventh…
Then Chen Wu came on stage.
Everyone thought he’d unleash some street dance “killer move” this time—like a Thomas flair, a windmill, or a headspin.
But surprisingly, Chen Wu chose a song with a fractured, lightning-fast beat.
—He’d already used his killer moves when competing for the theme song’s center position, so for the finale he wanted to switch things up, to show off with a “less is more” approach.
Even though Yue Zhaolin had seen it during practice, he still couldn’t help marveling to himself—
So amazing.
Chen Wu pushed his body control to the limit—when he stopped, it was pinpoint sharp, when he hit hard, the impact was explosive. Every move flowed so smoothly it was like his joints had been oiled.
Relaxed yet precise, effortless and masterful.
The audience immediately erupted in a unified “Waaah—”
[…Wait, was that frame-skipped?!]
[So why exactly was the theme song center given to Chu Li (I know he’s good at classical dance), but if we’re talking raw skill, Chen Wu is definitely top tier…]
[Chu Li was a Royal, who doesn’t know that by now?]
[Picking the center isn’t a street dance contest, other factors have to be considered. Instead of spreading rumors about Chu Li, Chen Wu’s fans should use that energy to vote for their fave. If he fails to debut in the end, you can just hug his champion medal and cry at home.]
[Anyone with extra votes, please help the main dancer! I really don’t want Zhihu Bro to debut, sob sob.]
Chen Wu had no idea about the clash happening in the live chat.
He smiled on stage, though every muscle in his body was boiling over. He was the classic competition-type performer—the greater the pressure, the steadier he became.
When his song ended, the livestream camera immediately cut to another angle: Deng Yangbing, ranked ninth, was already waiting on the other side of the stage.
Though no longer on camera, Chen Wu was still flushed and exhilarated from the audience’s applause. He jogged back to his spot, face lit up with excitement.
On the way, he ran into Yue Zhaolin. Chen Wu grinned, raised his hand, and the two exchanged a quick, easy high-five as they passed.
Smack—
From the front rows came curious murmurs:
“Eh, are Chen Wu and Yue Zhaolin close?”
“I only remember Chen Wu guiding Yue Zhaolin during the third round’s practice, but they must’ve interacted more offstage. That high-five looked really familiar.”
The effect of Chen Wu’s performance was almost immediate—his votes climbed noticeably.
—The vote tally screen was right there on the left side of the stage; with just a glance, both the audience and the trainees could see it.
The next performers were Deng Yangbing, Zhu Zhu, Mao Ding, and Rong Ruize.
This time, each person took the stage in turn, and the venue’s atmosphere became a literal rollercoaster:
When Deng Yangbing performed, it shot up; Zhu Zhu’s performance, it dropped; Mao Ding lifted it again; Rong Ruize came on, it plummeted.
Even putting aside how unlikeable Zhu Zhu and Rong Ruize were, their solos themselves were awful—each in their own special way.
Zhu Zhu’s limbs looked like they’d just been spawned fresh out of a game. His move of grabbing the “air’s throat” with one hand, then kicking with his leg, ended up throwing himself off balance.
[?]
[This is the most ridiculous one so far.]
[Is he just giving up???]
[Looks like he didn’t practice at all…]
[Sigh (lightbulb moment) — actually, this could be turned into gold. Anyone making reaction memes of this guy yet?]
As for Rong Ruize—he was downright bizarre.
He looked like a laggy robot with bad internet, every movement half a beat behind, mechanical and off.
His facial expression seemed to be running on two separate tracks: his brows furrowed and eyes drifting as he tried to recall the choreography, while his mouth curved into a fake smile.
[…]
[Scatter some sticky rice.]
[I’m convinced this guy is actually sick. I’m getting goosebumps just watching him.]
It wasn’t just the barrage that was creeped out—the live audience felt the same.
The people in the seats whispered to each other, clearly talking about him. Flustered by his shaky state, Rong Ruize’s fake smile only grew more twisted and uncanny.
When his stage finally ended and he headed toward Yue Zhaolin’s side, Tan Shen and Cen Chi—who were standing right in front of Yue Zhaolin—instinctively stepped back a pace.
Yue Zhaolin: “?”
Tan Shen: “…”
His step back was pure instinct, which could also be described as “a face-con’s self-defense mechanism”—Rong Ruize rushing over had startled him.
Cen Chi: “…”
He was face-blind, but he could still read expressions. The uncanny valley effect hit him hard.
Still, Tan Shen and Cen Chi didn’t have time to dwell on it. The one performing now was Fu Xunying, and then it would be their turn—they had to get ready.
The mood started heating up again. With higher-ranked trainees performing, the barrage grew lively.
[Fu Xunying’s solo is another foreign-language song—is he even Chinese?]
[A solo is supposed to show your strengths. He’s good at singing, so why shouldn’t he sing? Don’t be so possessive about other people’s stages, okay?]
[Possessive? It’s just calling him thick-skinned. One trick pony, milking it for all it’s worth.]
…
[That scorpion tail move from Cen Chi was solid.]
[Cen Chi’s been suppressed by the production team—he barely gets any screen time in the main episodes.]
[He’s just collateral damage from splitting a CP, while the other half hasn’t lost a single shot.]
[?]
[Tide has entered the battlefield.]
…
[Chu Li’s the real one-trick pony. His classical dance techniques are flashy, sure, but he keeps repeating them. No denying he’s strong, but I’m tired of it.]
[They keep marketing the whole “he gave up being chief of Chinese dance to become an idol” thing. Once or twice is fine, but the constant repetition makes me rebel.]
[Exactly. Who’s holding a knife to his throat, forcing him to be an idol?]
…
[This rap from Tan Shen is fire!]
[I can accept Tan Shen debuting—I’m sick of boy groups with that monotone, read-off-the-page rap. But his ranking’s too high. Second place is way out of his league.]
[His skills don’t match his rank. Aside from rap, he’s weak across the board. From now on, just hide him at the back of formations and only bring him forward when it’s time to rap.]
[Freeloader riding others’ fame.]
[Yue family’s son-in-law, and he’s proud of it?]
[Those insulting Tan Shen—deep down they wish their own fave got noticed by Tide too, so they could freeload as well, huh?]
[…]
Everyone knew that building a good relationship with Yue Zhaolin meant a chance to soar.
But Yue Zhaolin wasn’t someone they could just leech off whenever they wanted.
The lucky one—Tan Shen—naturally became the target of some people’s jealousy.
In their eyes, Tan Shen’s good fortune meant their own idol’s opportunity had been stolen, which made it all the more unbearable.
—Why wasn’t my fave the one chosen by Tide?
Tide itself had no idea about these people’s inner dramas, nor did they care. Their eyes were only on Yue Zhaolin, who was about to take the stage for his solo.
[Yue Zhaolin! Yue Zhaolin! Yue Zhaolin—]
[Number one with a landslide.]
[Ahhh, here he comes!]
As everyone held their breath, a figure appeared on camera. He led the lens around in a sweeping circle, the background shifting from the audience seats to the rows of trainees lined up on either side.
Amid the opening notes of the music, Yue Zhaolin slightly lifted his chin, raised his arm, and pointed toward the sky. His fingertip landed right on the beat—dong—.
The light pouring down seemed to drape him in a halo. He smiled faintly, his eyes shining bright, like amber brimming with flowing radiance.
He said nothing, yet you could feel that flourishing vitality—bold, unrestrained, and brimming with youthful pride.
The background music swelled: “Counting the surging beats in my ears, resonating with the anticipation of thousands.”
His knees bent in a clean curve, hitting the drumbeat, his elbow lifted and traced an arc.
His toes skimmed the floor, and the moment his right elbow swung outward, his steps came alive, his entire body moving with the rhythm.
The choreography Xingqiong designed emphasized broad, sweeping motions and grand frames. Yue Zhaolin’s footwork never stopped—each step pounding the beat.
Next came a motion like swinging his arm in a wide arc. Dressed in short sleeves, the sharp, cutting lines of his movements stood out all the more.
“Dancing with an irreplaceable stance, answering the passion deep in my heart.”
The star-shaped necklace around his neck swayed with his movements, its reflected light caught by the camera like a shooting star trailing fire.
His shoulders pulled into a fierce diagonal line, his right leg lifted—knee drawing back first, then suddenly striking forward, locked precisely onto the drumbeat.
He himself had become the wildest, freest drumbeat in this storm of music.
[Holy shit]
[That minty rush of hormones is about to explode]
[This outfit is a total cheat code—the wrist guard is just too much…]
[Anyone else notice the faint lines of muscle on his calf when he tenses?]
[And he’s still smiling as he dances… ahhhh]
He danced with effortless charisma, fire burning in his eyes, crashing head-on with the uncontrollable screams from the audience, igniting the entire arena.
As he turned and stepped back amidst the roar of cheers, he suddenly lost his balance.
In the crowd, Tide saw it happen. The scream burst from their throat before they could stop it: “Ah—”
Yue Zhaolin kept smiling, letting himself sink with the pull of gravity until his palm touched the floor.
In the spinning world, there was a fleeting silence—blinding stage lights flooding his vision, while the front-row audience blurred into shadows at the edge of his sight.
This was a flaw designed on purpose.
With one hand braced on the ground, his waist tightened, and his legs flipped in a forward-and-back arc—an elegant move.
As gravity tugged at his short sleeve, the clean lines of his abs flashed for just an instant.
On the massive screen behind him, the projected image of himself lifted its head. At the exact moment when every eye in the arena converged on him, he exhaled faintly, then drew in a sharp breath.
Even though the show hadn’t given him a live mic for this part, he sang out loud and clear:
“A perfect fall, then shine again—this is the drama of the stage’s rise and crash—”
And at the same time—boom!
Smoke cannons fired at the edge of the stage.
