Chapter 80: Halftime Break (1)
The third performance had officially come to an end.
This time, instead of arranging the trainees to do post-stage interviews as usual, the production team announced a piece of explosive news.
“We’ve set up a brand-new ranking. The top seven trainees in fan votes will need to participate in an offline autograph session the day after tomorrow, with a scale of fifty attendees. The autograph lineup will be announced tomorrow. Since the rankings are very tight, those near the top of the second tier should also be ready.”
—An autograph session?
The unexpected word made Lai Yudong open his eyes slightly wider. He hadn’t expected that, during such a closed-off recording, there would actually be a legitimate chance to unlock a new “map.”
Sneaking food deliveries over the wall and other rule-breaking activities didn’t count.
But an autograph session meant a live signing event for fans who purchased their works. Did this group of trainees even have works worth signing?
Not everyone was like Xu An, who had already released an album. Even Mo Li only had his former group’s group album.
The only possibility he could think of was the stage songs from the third performance. But those had been newly written by producers for the show and the trainees. Even if they were the first to perform them, the rights were limited to performance only. The copyrights belonged to the producers, and using them for profit would require a separate contract.
Forget it—none of that was something he needed to worry about.
As long as the organizers wanted to sell, they’d definitely find something to package. Even selling thin air could be branded as a concept and marked up to sky-high prices.
Never underestimate the tricks of capitalists.
Lai Yudong was full of confidence about making it into the autograph session. At this point, he had no choice but to be—he’d already lost count of how many times he’d been slapped in the face by reality.
Even Huang Xinyou could be slapped so hard he turned from a yellow-heart pomelo into a red-heart pomelo.
Once the autograph announcement was finished, the usual post-performance interviews followed.
“Did your group’s stage meet your expectations?”
“After completing such a high-difficulty stage, how are you feeling?”
“Do you want to try rap again in the future?”
“Is there anything you want to say to your teammates?”
Lai Yudong could clearly sense the direction behind the questions. Just like the barrage comments had speculated, the script given to their group for the third performance was the classic “comeback underdog” storyline.
That was a good thing.
Although the show wasn’t giving him a full 180-degree turnaround in treatment, at least the interviews were gradually becoming easier. A positive storyline meant they were considering him for a debut spot; otherwise, they could’ve simply given him no story at all—or worse, twisted the narrative to cut him out harshly.
A cruel yet helpless truth: money makes the world go round.
To call it a fate-defying reversal wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
The trainees boarded the return bus. After two rounds of eliminations, one bus was now enough to hold them all.
Lai Yudong’s seatmate was Li Xu.
The familiar scene brought back memories of their very first encounter. Back then, Li Xu had closed his eyes the moment he sat down to rest. This time, he was propping his chin up, gazing at the stream of traffic outside the window—whether lost in thought or waiting for someone to strike up a conversation, Lai Yudong couldn’t tell.
“Li Xu,” Lai Yudong called.
Li Xu turned his head slightly to glance at him. “What?”
“What do you usually prepare for an autograph session?” Lai Yudong asked earnestly. “Like small gifts? Greeting cards? If I write down some blessings and fold them into lucky stars, would that work?”
“You? Write?” Li Xu looked utterly dumbfounded. “Don’t mess around. If you do that, you’ll get scolded.”
Lai Yudong: “…?”
Lai Yudong: “Didn’t the director tell us to prepare something?”
Seeing that his roommate’s confusion didn’t seem fake, Li Xu sighed heavily, like a career fan carrying all the burden. “Those are things the fans prepare. They might give you plushies, hair accessories, handwritten letters, handmade crafts—stuff like that.”
He forced himself to come up with something:
“These next two days you just need to catch up on sleep, put on a face mask, keep yourself in good condition. If you really can’t sit still, then cram a little calligraphy practice.”
“Got it, thank you.” Lai Yudong nodded obediently. “But… why would I get scolded for doing that?”
Since there were no live cameras on the bus, he could ask openly without worrying about how it looked on screen.
In his mind, giving small gifts to fans was the most normal thing in the world. He often saw posts online about idols giving fans raincoats, drinks, even paying for shuttle buses to send them home.
Fans traveled from far away to attend offline events. If they were from another city, they had to buy round-trip plane tickets and book hotels. The entry pass for the autograph session surely wasn’t cheap either—it all took time, effort, and money.
He wanted to make fans feel like their trip hadn’t been in vain, to leave them with a good memory.
So wasn’t it only natural to prepare something with sincerity?
Besides, his small gifts were just tokens of appreciation. It wasn’t like he was paying fans to cheer for him—that would be more like hiring fake supporters.
Maybe the problem was that the gifts were too simple, and anti-fans would mock him for being stingy?
But all he had were a few banknotes from the “newbie starter pack.” He couldn’t exactly buy two cups of milk tea and split them between a hundred people.
And being stuck in a closed environment, he couldn’t go out to buy things anyway.
Li Xu gave him the real answer: “They’d scold you for flattering fans.”
—Flattering fans?
Lai Yudong had seen the term pop up in comment streams before, but he didn’t really understand fandom slang. He could only guess at the meaning: “Does that mean… like doing fanservice?”
“Not quite.” Li Xu, true to his reputation as the encyclopedia of survival shows, explained, “Flattering fans means shamelessly pandering to them. These days it’s almost the same as fanservice, but it’s still used as a jab.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
What a strange kind of logic.
Why would writing a few blessings count as shameless pandering to fans?
By that logic, saying “Good luck on the college entrance exams” would be considered pandering to every senior in high school.
And “Happy New Year” would be even worse—you’d be flattering the entire nation.
“Including the stuff you did before,” Li Xu glanced around cautiously, lowering his voice like he was spilling classified intel. “Telling fans on camera not to wait around after work, not lingering to interact with fans on your way out, doodling emoticons on paper to show them—those all count as pandering.”
It was obvious he spent a lot of time online.
“If things go badly… it could…” Li Xu hesitated for a long time before sighing. “Anyway, you might get scolded. Just… be careful.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
Got it. Sounds like he’s already been scolded.
Another thing he couldn’t make sense of.
Telling fans to go home earlier was because they had no way of knowing when he’d finish filming—he himself didn’t even know. Standing outside in December wind for hours could easily lead to catching a cold.
Similarly, walking the “after-work road” in less than a minute would feel like he was taking the fans’ effort for granted. But even when he stayed for over ten minutes, twenty at most, it wasn’t like he was holding a three- or four-hour outdoor fanmeet every day.
As for holding up paper signs, that was even easier to explain. Bumping into fans by chance was a pleasant surprise; drawing little emoticon faces was like sending a sticker in an online chat. He hadn’t even drawn hearts.
Seriously—wasn’t all this just basic politeness?
How could such ordinary gestures add up to shameless pandering?
Even taking a step back: as long as an idol had even a little fame, their income was way higher than the average person’s. The brand-name clothes they wore might cost more than what an ordinary person made in an entire year.
According to his star-chasing mom’s “fan-culture lessons,” idols were different from actors and singers who lived off their professional skills. Idols existed to provide emotional value, and their whole livelihood was funded by fans throwing money at them.
Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to make fans happy?
Only, this logic didn’t really apply to him—once he finished his mission, he’d be “retiring in peace.”
So, Lai Yudong spoke his mind bluntly: “I don’t get it.”
“…”
Li Xu felt a headache coming on.
To be fair, Li Xu didn’t think Lai Yudong had done anything wrong. On the contrary, compared to those idols who had no real works to their name yet still put on sunglasses and acted like they loved no one, Lai Yudong was practically a role model.
But this was simply the unspoken rule of the industry.
If he told the truth, Lai Yudong might get upset, and even if he listened, it didn’t mean he’d change. But if he didn’t explain clearly, Lai Yudong would keep getting flamed.
It was too difficult.
Images of Lai Yudong’s “famous moments of being praised for high EQ” flashed through his mind, yet Li Xu still had no idea how to handle this kind of landmine question properly.
All he could offer was a dry piece of advice: “Being too sincere isn’t always a good thing. You’ll get scolded.”
Lai Yudong calmly replied with an “oh.” “Whatever. If they want to scold me, let them.”
After all, he was the one being scolded. If he didn’t go online, he wouldn’t see it. And if it got too harsh, green mode would automatically filter it out.
Worst case scenario, he could just fall back on “retiring in peace.”
The master does not care. The master does not care.
Li Xu nearly blurted out “Pomelo Sect!”
He actually liked this kind of carefree attitude.
Unfortunately, for the sake of preventing Lai Yudong from becoming an easy target for rival fandoms during the show, Li Xu was determined to persuade him: “I suggest you save it for another setting—like autograph sessions after debut.”
Lai Yudong tilted his head in puzzlement. “Why? Is there a difference between autograph sessions?”
“During competition, you usually can’t skip signings.” Li Xu, unusually patient—even to his own surprise—explained, “The people who draw lucky stars to line up might not all be your fans. Some could even be antis. What if they don’t want your stuff?”
Lai Yudong thought it over. “I guess that’s true.”
Seeing that he was listening, Li Xu pressed his advantage: “Imagine this—your fans don’t get one, but antis do. Then they livestream themselves tearing it up in front of your fans.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
Yeah… that would be depressing.
“So better to save it for later. After debut, autograph sessions usually let you skip signings. Anyway, you’re definitely going to debut, so missing this one doesn’t matter.”
“Mm…”
Li Xu tried another angle. “And those lucky stars—you need special paper to make them look nice. The program team’s not going to go out of their way to get it for you. They probably won’t even have colored paper. What’ll you do then? Rip pages out of a notebook and shred them into strips? That’d look pretty shabby, bro. Think twice.”
Lai Yudong was finally convinced. “You’re right.”
“See my point?” Li Xu raised his eyebrows. “I even treated you to Kaifeng Fried Chicken—how could I ever set you up?”
“Thanks, Knight of Kaifeng Chicken.”
“No problem, Crazy Pomelo Friday.”
“?”
Another day of mutually inflicted damage.
…
Compared to preparing for the autograph session, Lai Yudong was facing a far harsher test.
He had a fever.
During the third performance recording, he’d felt woozy from time to time. After finishing the double-speed dance, he was so drained he couldn’t even lift his arms. But he’d assumed it was just the combination of too much physical exertion and laughing too hard.
That night back in the dorm, Lai Yudong was shivering all over, hands and feet ice-cold. He wrapped himself tightly in the blanket just to barely fend off the chill. With the headache and congestion piled on top, symptom after symptom, it was impossible to fool himself into thinking he wasn’t sick.
Pitifully curled up in his blanket, with his feverish head swimming, he had only one thought—
‘I’m screwed. Li Xu’s going to scold me.’
Lai Yudong figured he must have left the practice building before his clothes and hair were fully dry, then walked home in the cold evening air while still sweating. After going through that cycle a few times, he caught a chill.
He had sneezed a couple of times, but didn’t think much of it.
He thought his body could handle it, but he overlooked how exhausted he already was from the lack of rest during training.
Careless.
Good thing the third performance was already over. If it had been even a day later, he might have collapsed right on stage.
He had planned to slip quietly into the infirmary to check his temperature—just to see whether it was a mild cold or an actual fever—but the moment he stepped out, he bumped into Su Junzhe from the dorm next door.
“Huh?” The curly-haired boy blinked. “Your face is really red. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little under the weather.” Lai Yudong’s voice carried a stuffy nasal tone. “I was going to the infirmary.”
“Then let’s go together!” Su Junzhe kindly offered his arm to support the swaying Lai Yudong. “I need to grab more medicated patches anyway.”
“You’re sure your back’s okay?” Lai Yudong asked with concern.
“Mm, it’s manageable. If I use this downtime to rest more, it should be fine.”
[As expected of the hardship-sharing master–disciple duo]
[They’ve evolved into the sickroom duo]
[I stick with you through crazy teammates, you stick with me to the infirmary]
[Poor thing, Yuzu’s little face is all flushed]
[I suspect Dong-baby was already running a fever on stage]
[Yuzu didn’t look well even during breaks—I thought he was just tired]
[Oh no, please take Yuzu to the hospital right away]
[At this hour, only the ER’s open. Check his temperature first to see how bad it is]
Sitting in the infirmary, Lai Yudong silently stared at the electronic thermometer. The number on the screen made his brain stall for a moment.
—38.8°C.
Just one step away from a high fever.
“Whoa, that’s kind of serious…” Su Junzhe tilted his head toward the medical staff. “Sis, should we send him to the hospital? We can’t just let the fever keep climbing, right?”
“Hold on, I’ll contact the production team.” The nurse immediately pulled out her phone and started dialing.
The decision came quickly: Lai Yudong was to be sent to the hospital right away.
But then came a new problem—Lai Yudong was in no condition to go alone, someone needed to accompany him. It was late at night, and the staff on duty were all women; helping support someone who was 186 cm tall would be difficult. Asking the security guards to go along wasn’t really practical either.
That left only one option: finding another trainee to go with him.
But Su Junzhe’s back injury made that inconvenient as well.
And so, the daunting task fell to his roommate.
Between Li Xu and Xu An—one of them had to go.
