Chapter 95: The Finals (6)
As the start of the finals drew closer, the Starseekers gradually shifted from the warm-up livestream room to the finals livestream room.
The screen for the not-yet-begun broadcast was pitch black, and it was the newly added feature on the right-hand side that first caught their attention.
—The Meteor Ranking.
Starseekers could send virtual gifts to the trainees they supported. Contribution points would be converted, at a fixed ratio, into bonus votes that counted toward the finals segment. The eighteen trainees were ranked on the Meteor Ranking according to their contribution points, and once the ranking closed, the first-place trainee would gain an extra one million bonus votes.
This ranking opened at the same time as the finals.
A brand-new competition track had suddenly been introduced, and the forum instantly buzzed with heated discussion.
…
[Thread] Did you guys see the new ranking for the finals?
[OP] Is it worth charging for this ranking?
1F: What the heck, didn’t they say there would be no extra votes?
2F: Extra votes refer to the additional votes given to the stage first-place winner from on-site ballots. This ranking has nothing to do with live ballots, nor does it involve stage performance competition.
Besides, these are called “reward votes,” not “extra votes” /doge
3F: Smart move. You’re really paying for virtual gifts and contribution points, the votes are just the “freebie.”
4F: Naïve. This is the last segment—Sky would be stupid not to milk it.
5F: Let’s do a quick calculation: the unit price of Meteor Ranking isn’t cost-effective, it’s more expensive than regular charged votes. Even factoring in the million extra votes for first place, it still doesn’t balance out. So what’s the purpose of this ranking?
6F: There’s a difference. Regular charged votes need to be exchanged, so they’re still considered “data work.” But with Meteor Ranking, once you send a gift the votes are instantly credited, which saves time costs.
7F: Got it. This is basically a “rich-lady express lane.”
8F: Charged votes require purchasing products, right? There’s no time to buy those anymore, is there?
9F: Hard to say. If your voting warehouse is empty, you can’t spend; if it isn’t empty, there’s no point spending. What’s the use of pushing this ranking higher besides looking good?
10F: Reply to 9F: No, even those with unspent warehouses will still spend.
11F: Ordinary charged votes currently only need manpower to exchange. That essentially splits into the data group and the money group—those without money put in labor, those with money put in cash. Two tracks, voting simultaneously.
12F: As expected of Sky, squeezing fans’ wallets until the very last second.
13F: So which fanbases are they trying to cut into this round? Su’s? Mo’s? Yuzu’s? And maybe the ones stuck in the cutoff zone?
14F: We’ll know once we see which fanbases start spamming vote calls mid-way.
15F: Complain all you want, we’ll still spend… I feel like such an M.
…
Amid countless prediction posts and heated discussions across platforms, time ticked away, second by second.
Crowds gathered in front of their screens—some were fans who had accompanied the show all the way, some were just casual onlookers, and some were family and friends of trainees who couldn’t make it to the venue—all waiting to witness the birth of the final seven stars.
At 8 p.m., the countdown hit zero.
The livestream officially began.
The pitch-black venue lit up with dazzling lights. Standing at the front of the stage was host Fu Hanyu, dressed in a sharp suit, presiding over this one-of-a-kind graduation ceremony.
“This is the grand finals of Climbing to Stardom, produced by Sky Video. Tonight, the top seven, chosen by Starseeker votes, will debut as a group on this stage.”
“The grand finals are about to begin.”
“Please search for the star you desire, and cast your precious vote for him.”
The screen cut away to the rules introduction page. The eliminated trainee Liu Qichu’s voice sounded as narration, explaining both the standard voting rules and the newly added Meteor Ranking rules.
When the feed returned to the stage, Fu Hanyu was no longer at the center.
Instead, eighteen trainees stood in neat formation, all dressed in school-uniform style outfits. They were arranged in a triangular five-row formation according to three-tier ranking order—the front three rows held the top seven most likely to debut, while the back two rows were the remaining eleven.
At the very front stood Mo Li.
In the second row were Su Junzhe and Zhao Yifeng.
Lai Yudong was in the third row, second from the left on the screen.
His line of sight was almost drowned in the flood of bullet comments. The audience’s enthusiasm couldn’t be blocked by green-screen mode. If not for the system showing a rare shred of conscience—strengthening the filtering at his urgent request—he would have been forced to shut bullet comments off completely.
Once his view cleared, the sight of the audience seats came into full focus.
The proportion of each fandom’s light boards was nearly identical to the third performance venue: Su, Mo, and Yu split the field into three, with lavender, azure, and yellow-green lights blending together, painting the auditorium in cool hues.
The only difference was in the characters embraced by the primrose-colored lights.
—“Dong.”
Harsh winter surrounded tender early spring; ice and snow melted, giving way to new life.
It was both the change of seasons, and the place where two lines crossed.
Lai Yudong stared blankly at this vast ocean of “Dong,” the scene overlapping with the support flower wall he’d seen that afternoon. No matter the place, all of it bore his mark.
Not “Miura Yuki,” but “Lai Yudong.”
He suddenly recalled that fan at the signing event who had asked which name he preferred.
Only now did he realize: what had been called so crucial was not only to confirm his own wishes—it was also because of the last-minute preparations for this finals surprise.
Changing every single light board to the new version and ensuring that the entire venue showed nothing but “Dong”—that was no easy feat.
But they pulled it off.
One surprise after another left Lai Yudong’s heart surging, his whole body as if bathed in warm sunlight.
The finals had only just begun, yet his eyes and nose already stung with emotion.
[Did Lai Lai see the new light boards?]
[Of course he did, silly—Xiao Yu’s expression gives everything away www]
[I’m so scared Dong-baby will cry while dancing to the theme song]
[Don’t tell me Yuzu is going to cry all pear-blossom-in-the-rain until the finals end]
[Stay strong, Xiao Yu! Your makeup has to last several hours!]
The timely arrival of the BGM rescued Lai Yudong in this moment of crisis. He hurriedly pushed those delicate emotions aside and focused his spirit on the theme song.
He lifted his gaze with the beat, dark-green eyes glimmering like polished agate.
“In the darkness, I hear your call…”
The first line of lyrics rang out, and it felt as though everything had returned to where the dream had first begun.
But this time, he wasn’t in Class C. He was standing at the debut seats, closest to his dream, having climbed all the way from fifty-fifth place into the early ranks.
The theme song that once gave him so much trouble now showed not a trace of stiffness. He danced freely with the music, blending seamlessly among the eighteen, not awkward in the slightest.
The camera cut in from different angles, face after face with meticulous makeup appearing on the big screen.
[There are too many people, I can’t find my bias]
[The close-ups are switching so fast I’m getting dizzy, like they don’t want me to actually see anyone’s face]
[I’m relying on hair color to spot my little Red in the cracks…]
[!! I saw Yuzu!!]
[They only gave me one second! Sky, you heartless thing!]
[First time viewer here—who was that handsome blond guy just now?]
[Written as Miura Yuki, read as Lai Yudong—official No.1 in visual ranking, a golden-haired Xiao Yu so devastatingly handsome it hurts, yet still hardworking and ambitious.]
[This is the third time I’ve been told that the heartthrob’s name is Miura Yuki.]
The first chorus ended, moving into the breaking section. The eliminated trainees entered from the back of the stage behind the eighteen, joining in to complete the theme song together.
The camera slowly pulled back.
All 101 contestants had gathered onstage, and the wide shot of the stage was especially grand and moving.
At the same time, the second verse began.
“Small as I am, you chose me.
Dreams are no longer fragile bubbles that burst at a touch.”
One by one, the faces of eliminated trainees appeared on the big screen—
Liu Qichu, Wang Yiwen, Liang Zhisheng, Zhou Rui, Pei Lan, Huang Yueru…
Everyone had come back.
[A little teary-eyed, this kind of moment always gets me.]
[I saw my bias!]
[Already got tissues ready (emotionless).]
[The gap between the eliminated group’s dancing and the finals group’s is kinda big hhhh.]
Lai Yudong was glad he was standing on stage, unable to clearly see what was happening behind him.
The fans’ heartfelt support had already stirred his emotions—if he were to witness with his own eyes the sight of everyone returning to the stage, he might very well achieve the honor of being the first one to cry at the finals.
The chorus repeated again.
With several loud boom, boom sounds, the stage machines around them activated in waves, shooting white columns of vapor upward like fireworks igniting.
The mist slowly dispersed, as though a hazy filter had been added to the scene.
The final chorus began.
A louder boom exploded across the venue, and dense streams of confetti floated down from above like celestial maidens scattering flowers. They looked like fireworks, like spilled paint, like a rainbow.
Brilliant colors mingled with the boys’ smiling faces, so beautiful it made one wish to freeze the moment forever.
The music stopped, and everyone froze in place on stage.
This time, the ending pose required only standing where they were.
Just like in the theme song’s MV, the BGM shifted into a gentle piano arrangement, followed by close-ups of the trainees’ faces.
The close-ups of the top five quickly finished.
The camera then turned to the pale blond boy, his lips curved in a soft smile, like ripples stirred on a lake by a passing breeze.
But in the very next second, a piece of confetti dramatically landed right on the tip of his nose.
He clearly froze for a moment, then quickly reacted, a trace of helpless amusement glinting between his brows and eyes.
He pinched the strand of confetti between his fingertips and gently blew it away.
[That confetti moment really got me.]
[He looks just like a cute little puppy.]
[Is Yuzu remembering the theme song recording?]
[Don’t know if Yuzu remembered, but I definitely flashed back to the day I first fell into this fandom.]
[+1, I also joined the fandom because of that iconic confetti photo.]
[Confetti God’s blessing T T]
[This must be fate.]
[The first piece of confetti marked my baby’s destined rise to the skies! That means the second piece will surely carry him to a top debut position!]
Lai Yudong hadn’t expected the coincidence.
The ribbon that slowly landed on the tip of his nose wasn’t as sudden as the one that had brushed his lips earlier, but it was still enough to startle him. Very few people ever encountered two such low-probability accidents in a row.
Perhaps—just as the bullet comments said—this was a good omen?
He couldn’t help but indulge in a bit of superstition.
“Welcome to the grand finals of Climbing to Stardom.”
Host Fu Hanyu returned to the stage once more, reviewing the journey so far and the voting rules.
Meanwhile, the trainees quickly cleared the stage: some returned to the exclusive viewing section for eliminated contestants, while others rushed backstage to change into outfits for the next performance.
After delivering the lines meant to buy the trainees some time, the program finally reached a new segment—
The reveal of the debut group’s name.
Online, countless so-called “real leaks” and joke “fake leaks” had been circulating.
The most commonly mentioned names included Lighting Up the Stars, Big Dipper, Superstar, Seven-Star Hotel, Saviors of Sky, and so on.
In short, each one less believable than the last.
Fu Hanyu concluded his lengthy build-up: “The official debut group name of Climbing to Stardom will now be revealed.”
Under countless gazes, the long-awaited group name appeared on the big screen.
It was a line of English text, closely tied to the show’s theme.
“The final debut group name is—StarEpoch.”
StarEpoch, meaning “The Age of Stars.”
The birth of the stars would mark the beginning of a new era for this boy group.
