Chapter 84: The Signing Event (3)
“Mo Li, let me explain! I really just zoned out!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I could tell your direction was a bit off.”
“If you hadn’t reminded me, I might have been utterly disgraced.”
“Pfft. Don’t exaggerate.”
…
Lai Yudong looked on, half amused and half helpless, at the Yuzu-fan who was frantically apologizing to Mo Li. The awkwardness between the two of them was almost tangible.
Both were flustered, worried that their words or actions might leave the other with a bad impression.
In a sense, the rule against skipping signings forced both sides to “do business.”
Even if it wasn’t explicitly forbidden, skipping over other members during a group signing was still considered rude. That’s why events often adopted an odd-even split system—both to reduce the number of people each fan had to face at once, and to increase the amount of time they got with one person.
For solo fans, they wished they could devote the entire seven minutes to their own bias.
And so, the accident-prone signing event continued.
After a few more people, Lai Yudong was greeted by a Yuzu-fan again—this time with a stern look, as if she were heading into a conference room to take charge of a meeting. She was holding a notebook with a pen clipped to its cover, giving the impression she might whip out a laptop at any second to run through a business plan PowerPoint.
Yuzu-fan sat down. She hadn’t prepared any accessories this time, just handed over the photobook: “Sign anywhere.”
Drawn in by her commanding aura, Lai Yudong also became serious. The tip of his pen no longer felt like it was signing a page with his own photo, but like he was handling a contract requiring caution.
Yuzu-fan slowly spoke: “Which name do you like better?”
As always, Lai Yudong lifted his gaze when he replied, looking her straight in the eyes: “A nickname?”
“No.” Yuzu-fan corrected herself with a more precise phrasing. “Between Miura Yuki and Lai Yudong—which name would you rather people call you?”
“Eh…?”
Lai Yudong was slightly stunned.
It was a different kind of surprise compared to the earlier questions.
Choosing between two names—this was a hard one to answer.
Which name fans preferred didn’t matter much; at most it just split the statistics. That’s why, when it came to data collection or comment control, the name “Miura Yuki” had to be used consistently, word for word.
But if the person himself expressed a preference, that became a benchmark. It could very easily influence the direction of the fandom, and in more extreme cases, might even be treated like an imperial edict by a handful of fans who would go around “correcting” others.
This was what made Lai Yudong hesitate.
Honestly, he leaned toward using his real name. Only when he was called Lai Yudong did he feel a strong sense of belonging. That was why, on that day after work, when a fan had shouted his real name aloud, he had felt the distance between himself, the Yuzu-fans, and the world grow just a little smaller.
The so-called “parallel worlds” were like two parallel lines.
But in that moment when “Lai Yudong” was called out, their worlds had intersected.
As for “Miura Yuki,” it wasn’t even a proper stage name—it was more like a game character ID.
A cringy username from his middle-school days, it carried memories that should have stayed sealed away. If not for the system being riddled with as many bugs as that overly green novel app, he figured he would never have seen those four characters again for the rest of his life.
And yet, fans had attached new meaning to it, spinning off a memory that belonged to them too, one they called “Yuzu.”
It was just too hard to choose.
The only silver lining was that he already knew he wasn’t a foreign player—otherwise he’d have to deal with an even bigger mess of a question.
Just thinking about it gave him a headache.
By the time Lai Yudong had finally managed to prepare an answer, Yuzu-fan—looking every bit the sharp, corporate-elite type—spoke up first, as if she had already seen through him:
“Don’t you dare try to brush me off with the same excuse you used on that old fraud Kong Lao Thief. You have to pick one of the two.”
Lai Yudong: “…”
Someone save him.
Should he say—no surprise, she really was his fan? She had predicted exactly how he would try to dodge the question.
“I’m not trying to make things difficult for you,” Yuzu-fan continued. “I’m part of the fan club management team, and this is something of vital importance to all of us.” She flipped open her notebook, revealing a draft she had written in advance. “Baby, you ended up here only because the production team grabbed you by accident, so we want to know your true thoughts.”
To ease his worries, she deliberately emphasized: “Nicknames are nicknames, they’re not within the scope of discussion. What we need is one single name that can represent you.”
“So—if you had the chance to re-fill the entry form for the competition, which name would you choose?”
The tip of Lai Yudong’s pen stilled for a moment, the free-form message he was writing on her photobook only missing the signature.
He stayed quiet for a bit, then said slowly: “Changing my name would just cause trouble for you.”
As far as he knew, there were already many fan-made items tied to his name—lightboards, banners, fan club names. If he suddenly switched, it would definitely throw everyone into confusion.
With only two weeks left until finals night, there was no need to create unnecessary problems.
“Not changing it is what causes us trouble.” Yuzu-fan countered sharply. “What we like isn’t your name—it’s you. So your wishes will always come first.”
“…”
Lai Yudong found it even harder to decide.
He felt like he was standing at a crossroads in life—on one side, a fleeting passerby; on the other, a path of earnest honesty.
Each choice seemed to hint at a different outcome for his future after debut.
Sensing his inner leaning, Yuzu-fan pressed her advantage:
“If we’ve been calling you by that name for so long, but it isn’t the one you most want to hear, then to us it feels like there’s always a barrier between us.”
“An idol isn’t supposed to lie to their fans, right?”
In the end, Lai Yudong let out a long sigh of resignation and spoke his true thoughts: “If possible, of course I’d prefer my real name.”
“Alright, I’ll pass that along.” Yuzu-fan scribbled furiously in her notebook, as if she were taking minutes at a meeting. “Next question: what do you think the fandom name should be?”
Lai Yudong put on a pitiful, doe-eyed expression, trying to get by with cuteness: “Do we really have to change it? Everyone’s already used to the current one, right?”
Yuzu-fan hardened her heart and ignored the act: “No. It has to match your name.”
—Plan failed.
Seeing there was no room to maneuver, Lai Yudong had no choice but to yield: “Let me think.”
He quickly began a mental brainstorm.
Although Yuzu-fan, as a fan club representative, had assured him it wouldn’t be a hassle, he knew all too well how jarring it would feel to have a completely unrelated fandom name.
If possible, it would be best to keep it close to the original.
With a joking tone, Lai Yudong asked for confirmation: “The show said everyone calls you Yuzu Candy. They weren’t tricking me, right?”
“No, that’s the one.”
“Here’s what I was thinking.” Lai Yudong explained gently, “My name has the character Dong (winter), which is a homophone for Dong (east). I am the ‘East,’ and you are the ‘West (Xi).’ Only when joined together do we form a whole. So the fandom name could be XiYu Candy— XiYu Candy. Another way to see it is: I’m opening my heart to you, so the fan name gains something new while building on the original.”
He smiled and asked, “Would that be alright?”
“No problem, that’s excellent, everyone will definitely love it.” Yuzu-fan finished jotting down the full logic behind the name and kept talking nonstop: “There’s also a very serious matter—could you rest a bit more?”
Lai Yudong looked troubled. “If you mean during practice, I’m afraid that’s something I can’t promise.”
“But you’ve already worked yourself sick. We’re all very worried about you.”
“Isn’t catching a cold or fever pretty normal?” Lai Yudong’s voice was as clear and calm as water. “The people stronger than me are working hard. That means I have to work twice as hard just to keep from falling too far behind them. The fatigue and discomfort I feel in the process is just a compressed fraction of the perseverance they’ve built up over years.”
Gentle as he usually was, this was the one thing he refused to compromise on.
He was the type who, once setting a goal, would give it everything he had—either don’t do it at all, or do it to the best.
The Yuzu-fan tried persuading again: “Then at least you could set a regular schedule—like finishing by ten at night.”
“Finish by ten at night…” A certain face flashed across Lai Yudong’s mind, along with memories of the barrage of criticism for calling it a day too early.
Even though his situation wasn’t the same, this plan simply wouldn’t work.
He politely declined: “That would mean I’d have to get up at three in the morning, right?”
“I was only giving an example. You could finish at midnight too, just don’t drag it into the morning.”
“Mm, but dance practice isn’t something where you can just clock out at a fixed time. For the second round, my teammates and I tried it, but not a single day did we actually finish on schedule.” Lai Yudong explained, “If I’m refining a whole sequence, and I’ve just finished tightening one eight-count when the time’s up, I can’t just stop right there. I can’t end practice right after one eight-count. I need to complete the whole section.”
He shifted to another angle and continued explaining:
“Dance practice is more about maintaining a state of flow. It’s best to keep going in one breath. It’s just like college students cramming during finals week or rushing to finish a paper—most people prefer pulling an all-nighter, right?”
Yuzu-fan, who was about to face her own final exams: “…”
Convinced.
“Being an idol is different from other jobs. Since I chose to stand under the spotlight and receive so much love from fans, I must put in the effort that matches it.” Lai Yudong suddenly recalled his long-lost dance partner. “A lot of trainees work just as hard, yet they may never even earn the chance to keep standing on stage.”
“So I should treasure every single second I get up there. And treasuring it isn’t just about words. Preparing for the stage is incredibly rushed—I don’t think I can afford to slow down.”
“Even though I know everyone sincerely cares about me, and I’m really grateful for that, you don’t need to worry. I’ll manage everything well. You should also take good care of yourselves—don’t overthink or overexert.”
“I hope we can all find a more beautiful future.”
The Yuzu-fan sighed inwardly, helpless.
She had already guessed she wouldn’t be able to persuade him, but since the other fan club members had placed such high hopes on her, she could only shoulder the responsibility.
If he were that easy to sway, he wouldn’t have pushed himself to the point of collapsing with a fever at three in the morning and ending up in the hospital, only to be sitting at the signing table the very next day.
Other than confirming his preference for his real name and settling the fandom name, she had truly come away empty-handed this time.
In order to save even one extra minute with him, she hadn’t even taken care of herself—no pretty hair accessories, no fun questions, and she might have even left him with the impression that she was like a nagging mom.
Still, at least she had confirmed one thing.
Yuzu was definitely an extrovert.
“—All done. Please keep it safe.”
The cool, low voice laced with a smile pulled Yuzu-fan’s drifting thoughts back. The signed photobook was handed to her with both hands, his graceful posture making it seem like he was presenting an important invitation.
She glanced down. The golden paint pen had traced out beautiful handwriting—smooth and steady, sharp yet flowing, gentle yet edged, just like him himself: tender without losing his brilliance.
[To XX:
May your future shine bright — Lai
May your youth never be wasted — Yu
May your tomorrow be worth expecting — Dong
By Miura Yuki]
Though he couldn’t sign with his real name, he still wove it into the message.
“I’m really grateful that you were willing to give up your personal time to represent everyone and talk with me about so many important things, letting me understand your thoughts. Although I can’t take it upon myself to repay you for that extra minute, I hope this one-of-a-kind message can leave you with a beautiful memory.”
“Thank you for coming for me, and even more for coming on behalf of everyone.”
The Yuzu-fan’s head shot up in surprise.
What she saw was the boy with pale golden hair, smiling as warmly as spring sunlight. His sincere and thoughtful words struck directly into her soul, leaving her completely immersed in an ocean of gentleness.
She held the photobook in a daze, momentarily losing herself.
She wasn’t a rookie fangirl. She had followed many idols, heard countless canned lines, and seen every kind of calculated fan-service trick.
But this was the first time at a signing event that she had ever felt the urge to cry.
