Synopsis:

Cheng Qisheng is an ordinary person suffering from a terminal illness.

By chance, she obtains a miniature planet. Aside from a single ruined city, there is nothing else on it.

Time flows much faster on the miniature planet than in her own world. Cheng Qisheng decides to develop human civilization there, hoping that the new humans will discover a cure for her disease.

Good news: The new humans are utterly loyal to Cheng Qisheng and worship her as the creator god.

Bad news: They still fail to find a cure for her illness.

Even worse news: The miniature planet is destroyed, and Cheng Qisheng is about to die as well.

At the very moment of the planet’s destruction, a notification suddenly sounds from the ruined city:

“Safe City binding successful!”

—A Safe City is a city that descends into every world where disasters erupt.

The city lord can bring at least ten thousand local residents and use the Safe City to travel across various disaster-stricken worlds, gathering resources and continuously rebuilding and upgrading the city.

There are only two outcomes: either the Safe City collapses during its upgrades and everyone dies, or it keeps evolving step by step and eventually becomes a new world itself.

As the Safe City levels up, so does its city lord. Cheng Qisheng’s terminal illness now has a cure!

TOC

ZOMBIES Arc

CH1.1 | CH1.2 | CH2.1 | CH2.2 | CH3.1 | CH3.2 | CH4 | CH5.1 | CH5.2

EXTREME COLD Arc

CH45.1 | CH45.2 | CH46.1 | CH46.2 |

Novelupdates TOC – LINK

The post I Have a Safe City first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

作者：黑猫白袜子

Chapters: 48

Alan, an unremarkable and somewhat lazy transmigrator, settled in a remote mountain village in the seventh year after his journey.

He met a silent and clumsy man, and out of kindness, offered him a cup of his homemade creamy honey wine.

After drinking it, beneath the man’s heavy, dark cloak, a fearsome tail covered in scales began to sway slightly.

(A Western fantasy slice-of-life sweet story about two fools falling in love.)

一

TOC

CH1 | CH2 |

Novelupdates TOC – LINK

The post A Cup of Honey Wine for the Dragon first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Chapters: 49 chapters (Ongoing)

Synopsis:

Qi He had worked for twelve years as a game reviewer—specialized in bug testing, with flashy, unorthodox gameplay.

After suddenly dropping dead, he transmigrated into an apocalypse.

On the very first day, he bound to a system, which told him he was just cannon fodder in this world. He had to play his role strictly according to the script at every key plot point.

First plot point.

System summary: “You’re selfish and despicable. Relying on the favor your parents once gave him, you demand that ‘the strongest fighter,’ Yan Chuanbai, come pick you up in H City. Yan Chuanbai gives you food, but when you see it’s expired, you throw it out right in front of him.”

Script loading:

[In the cramped rental room, Yan Chuanbai kicks the door open. His cold gaze holds nothing but disdain as he tosses a bag of bread at your feet. It is the last food Yan Chuanbai has on him, yet you… ▇▇▇▇]

Beep beep—system error.

System: ?

Qi He: ?

…

Waste it? That’s what he’s best at.

Qi He: “Guess I’ll just follow my own understanding of the plot then. ^^”

The next moment—Bang!

In the cramped rental room, Yan Chuanbai kicked the door open.

—

In an apocalypse where only the strong survive, Yan Chuanbai hated decorative “vases” the most.

Especially one particular useless “good-for-nothing” who clung to old favors and couldn’t even kill a chicken.

But gradually… he started noticing something was different.

…

[Faced with the encircling horde of zombies, you turn your head and ▇▇▇▇ Yan Chuanbai]

Qi He: “Pick up.”

Yan Chuanbai: ?

[You think viciously: Even if you die, you’ll drag your teammate to ▇▇▇▇]

Qi He: “Sing a song.”

Teammates: ??

System: …………

Qi He speedran bug exploits, and the plot collapsed all the way down.

The system, dead inside: This isn’t just a professional match—it’s running headfirst into a shotgun.

—A dumb, funny, sweet power fantasy—

TOC

CH1 | CH2 | CH3

Novelupdates TOC – LINK

The post Guess I’ll Have to Run the Plot Myself!  [Apocalypse] first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Pretending to be strangers in front of the cameras—what kind of bizarre request was that?

Lai Yudong stared incredulously at the red-haired boy in front of him. After thinking it over for a while, he finally arrived at what he believed to be the most logical explanation:

“You’re trying to maintain your persona?”

He honestly couldn’t think of a second possibility.

Surely it couldn’t be that the guy was truly some kind of solo-fan purist, shutting out even his own CP with Lai Yudong?

He really didn’t want to jinx himself by saying it aloud.

“I…”

Li Xu was caught off guard by this strange train of thought. The corner of his mouth twitched; he wanted to refute it, to say he had never once tried to force some persona, but he couldn’t even come up with a harsh retort.

Expressionless, he took a sip of his iced cola, using the chill of the drink to steady his mood.

“Our dorm’s popularity is pretty high right now. It’s already surpassed Dorm 502, who had the most heat at the beginning of the competition—the drama group that Zhang Mingche tied his group votes to.”

“Mm.” Lai Yudong nodded, indicating he was listening.

The “drama group” referred to Jiang Yangfan, Yu Yizhen, and Zhang Mingche, who had been on the same team during the initial stage. Audiences often mentioned the three of them together, but lately, their presence on the barrage chat seemed to have dropped off.

Maybe their group fans just didn’t have the energy anymore.

“A lot of Dorm 707’s group fans are trying to pull Liang Zhisheng up, but judging by last week’s ranking, I don’t think he’s going to make it.” Li Xu gave a self-mocking smile. “Of course, I’ve also benefitted a lot from the dorm’s overall popularity. Since you can only vote for three people in the second round, most of the time it’s your fans or Xu An’s fans who tack on votes for me and Liang Zhisheng. After all, voting for us doesn’t pose any threat, so it’s like doing a good deed.”

“Especially your fans—there are too many first-love-type show fans who just aren’t ruthless enough. They really care about whether you’re comfortable or not. Plus, since you helped me revise my rap lyrics, they kindly threw me a good number of ‘friendship votes.’ I have no idea how they even came to the conclusion that you and I are on good terms.”

Lai Yudong watched Li Xu mumbling to himself, thoughtful.

That last sentence sounded like a complaint, but between the lines it carried a faint joy at their relationship being acknowledged. It was obvious he wanted to secretly savor it, yet he couldn’t help but come right up to the person involved and bring it up—just short of humming smugly that those fans really had sharp eyes.

Mm. No need to deny it, no need to spell it out.

Let him be.

“And then?” Lai Yudong asked calmly.

Li Xu drew in a deep breath. “I don’t want to ride on your popularity. Even if I can’t debut, I just want to rely on my own ability.”

“Got it.” Lai Yudong pulled a pack of chicken nuggets out of the brown paper bag, tore open the sauce packet warmed by the food—a string of casual movements that eased the atmosphere. “Since you’ve already thought it through, I won’t interfere. But I still want to say what I think.”

He tilted his head, holding up a nugget dipped in sauce. “I don’t think Dorm 707’s popularity is because of one or a few of us. The four of us are all indispensable. If you were swapped out for Zeng Kai, it’s not like he’d automatically get dragged along too.”

“So, it’s not my popularity. It’s our popularity.”

The streetlight reflected in his jet-black eyes, like stars fallen to earth.

Li Xu silently looked at the blond boy beside him. The other had just spoken words that stirred his heart, only to stuff the nugget into his mouth right after—as if waiting another second would starve him to death.

Li Xu pulled his gaze back, shoved the rest of his burger into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

The words had been too beautiful, enough to shake his resolve.

“And besides, people will think the two of us are fighting,” Lai Yudong added.

Li Xu: “…”

Li Xu: “Is that really important?”

“Maybe?”

The atmosphere grew quiet. The two of them ate their hard-won fast food, each lost in their own thoughts. From a distance, the streetlights cast their glow over the bus stop, stretching their shadows long—like a still from an art-house film.

If not for the biting chill of the December night wind, reddening their ears and stiffening their fingers, the scene might have been even warmer.

“Miura,” Li Xu suddenly spoke.

“Mm?”

“What will you do if you don’t debut?”

Of course, Lai Yudong couldn’t answer with switching servers to do missions.

So, following the path of his original life, he gave a normal reply: “Study.”

“Your life is so boring.” Li Xu shot back.

A textbook remark from a rebellious teenager. Lai Yudong wasn’t surprised; he just gave a dismissive smile. “What about you?”

“Haven’t decided. Since I signed the contract, I can’t join another talent show in the short term. And a small company like mine won’t give me resources or cobble together a group to debut. So I’ll just write songs and see if I can make it that way. Sigh. If that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll debut under a skin as a virtual streamer. That’s pretty popular these days.”

Not bad—very two-dimensional.

Lai Yudong dipped another nugget in sauce. “You’re not studying?”

If he remembered right, Li Xu was a year younger than him. If his studies had gone smoothly, he should be in university or college by now.

Of course, there was also the possibility that he’d already stepped into society.

“I filed for a leave of absence.” Li Xu gazed into the distant night sky. “I’m giving myself two years. If I can’t make a name for myself, I’ll go back to school. If I can, then I won’t.”

“Very bold,” Lai Yudong commented.

If it were him, he couldn’t give up a stable education for the sake of a fleeting passion. At most, he’d wait until after graduation—unless he had absolute certainty.

He was the cautious type, the kind who didn’t dare gamble recklessly with his future.

“It can’t wait any longer—I’m already eighteen. Xu An was only seventeen when he joined Hear my Voice.” Li Xu said listlessly. “I don’t want to live a rule-bound life, trapped in a school that feels like a steel cage, reading books that are useless for actual work. What’s the point of that?”

“But…” Lai Yudong hesitated. After a brief struggle, he decided to urge him toward schooling. “For those who are forced to give up their studies, your so-called rebellion is just another kind of conformity.”

Li Xu turned his head and stared at him for a few seconds. “That… kind of makes sense.”

Lai Yudong: “…”

He accepted it so quickly that Lai Yudong suddenly had nothing to say.

“Anyway, I’ve already filed for a leave of absence. Thinking too much about it won’t change anything.” Li Xu was open-minded about it, his forward-looking drive fitting his personality perfectly. “Then what about you? After you finish studying, what will you do?”

“Something related to my major,” Lai Yudong replied vaguely.

“For example?”

“A TV station or something.”

On the surface, Lai Yudong was calm, but in truth his mind was screaming Please stop asking, bro! He was terrified that one more question would expose him.

If pressed further, his only answer left would be: work as a janitor at a TV station.

He was really bad at lying.

Tricking Zhao Yifeng that the haunted house was “healing” didn’t count—that was just joking around.

Fortunately, Li Xu didn’t press the matter. His attention shifted elsewhere: “A TV station? But if you debut, doesn’t that mean you can’t go there?”

Because he couldn’t reveal the system’s surreal mission requirements, Lai Yudong had to follow the logic of ordinary reality: if this was the real world, and he had been dragged into a talent show and successfully debuted, then what would he do next?

After some thought, he answered, “It’s fine. I don’t necessarily have to go to a TV station.”

Lai Yudong couldn’t really say he loved broadcasting and hosting. What drove him was more the principle of “if you’re going to do something, do it well.” It was the same mindset that pushed him to practice singing and dancing for the stage.

He didn’t have any must-achieve dreams. To him, being an idol or being a host were simply two different kinds of jobs—neither inherently better or worse. Like getting HE1 or HE2 in a game.

But if he had to pick one, he’d definitely choose the latter. He had more confidence in his own field of study, and he didn’t like doing things without certainty.

As always—he was the cautious type.

Of course, all of the above only applied under the “real-world” assumption. In truth, there was no such dilemma.

The system had said that completing the task would unbind him from it, and he would receive a mysterious reward. So debuting meant the end of the mission. At that point, the only option before him would be to return to his original world and continue studying.

Mission completed, reward obtained, life back on track.

That should have been a happy ending for all. But his forward-thinking, cautious nature made him overthink everything. The joy was diluted by a stream of questions.

If he left, what about the fans in this world? What about the boy group that debuted?

How would his absence be filled?

Would they create an NPC based on him named Miura Yuki? Or would it just be a case of debut today, disappear from the industry tomorrow, erased from all records?

Either way, his conscience wouldn’t sit well with it.

Lai Yudong couldn’t give up the family and friends of his original world, but he also didn’t want to irresponsibly abandon everything here and run away. Yet, for now, he couldn’t think of a perfect solution.

It was too hard. Could the system really handle it properly?

He wasn’t convinced.

…

The set meal for two was quickly wiped clean.

After spending a while outside in the wind, making sure the smell of fried chicken had completely faded from their clothes, the two of them retraced their steps and headed back.

Lai Yudong snuck a guilty look left and right before climbing back into the restroom window. If sneaking out had made him feel like a delinquent ditching school to hit an internet café, then sneaking back in made him feel like a thief trying to steal a bike key.

Too thrilling—his heart could hardly take it.

The last time he’d felt this much adrenaline was when he realized during a Chinese test that he’d memorized the wrong week’s poem.

Oh wait, no—that time he mentioned ‘fanservice’ on a livestream.

Lai Yudong handed the three-piece disguise kit back to Li Xu, then stepped out of the bathroom and was greeted by the barrage he hadn’t seen in a while.

[Missing person returns]

[What were they talking about for so long? So curious.]

[Bet they went to steal the master recording qaq]

[Stealing the master won’t help—they deliberately avoided cameras. The hallway cams picked up nothing.]

[I suspect they actually climbed out through the bathroom window]

Netizens were basically Sherlock Holmes.

Remembering their heart-to-heart, Lai Yudong tilted his head toward the red-haired boy. “So… do we still need to…?”

Li Xu shot back, “What do you think?”

Lai Yudong replied decisively, “No need.”

“…You’re way too firm about that.” Li Xu rubbed his temples, exasperated, then let out a sigh of surrender. “Fine, whatever. Do what you want. You always have a bunch of crooked logic anyway.”

[I didn’t understand a single word. What’s going on with them?]

[Stop talking in riddles!]

[Did they have a fight?]

[Doesn’t look like it. They seemed to be getting along just fine before the talk.]

“I don’t spout crooked logic,” Lai Yudong muttered. “Go ask Liang Zhisheng—he’d definitely back me up.”

Li Xu’s face darkened. “Don’t. I don’t need him nagging me to death.”

“Looks like you know it’s your fault.”

“What kind of twisted logic is that?”

[Why are you tattling to the parents?!]

[Yuzu’s little brain works pretty fast hhh]

[Well, our Dong-baby is both a face-pick and a words-pick]

[It’s charisma-pick]

[Face-pick + words-pick, no problem there]

[Wait, who’s Dong-baby?]

[Dong-baby = Lai Yudong = Miura Yuki = Yuzu]

Lai Yudong’s feelings were complicated.

Seeing his real name appear in the barrage was like a player with a special hidden identity suddenly being forced to reveal their true self—switching from immersive roleplay to a full-on real-person livestream. The shift was hard to get used to.

Just like that one comment.

“Lai Yudong” and “Miura Yuki”—the two names had now been equated.

<< _ >>

The post Trainee Ch.59 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

[Goose Gossip Group丨Highlight丨Starlight Episode 10 Live Thread]

———

[Original Post]

RT.

Thread rules, floor-watching, you all know the drill.

[2F] It’s already the 3rd?

Running out of holiday time, I’m so anxious…

[5F] Sincere recommendation: the “Starlight Trainees Peacock Display Compilation” on Bilibili.

Guaranteed to put you in a good mood after watching.

Everyone was posing as if determined to make an iconic photo—almost killed me laughing.

[9F] Peak “unintentional” flexing: jawline, Adam’s apple, collarbone, breathy voice, pretending not to notice the camera, switching through like eight hundred poses in a second.

One trainee even secretly tensed his biceps on purpose.

[12F] I know who that muscle-flexer was.

It’s Chen Wu, lol. He had an account on Douyin before, posting street dance competitions and fitness training.

When comments asked to see abs, he filmed them. Said it’d be a waste not to show off.

[16F] In that compilation, the ones doing check-ins at the support screens, “coincidentally” running into fans—of course everyone knows they’re acting, fanservicing.

But it doesn’t trigger disgust.

The vibe is: “As long as he’s willing to put in effort for me, it’s fine.” Isn’t chasing idols just about emotional value anyway?

[21F] Loved it. Hope they can keep this energy after debut.

[25F] How come no one mentioned Emperor Yue?

His livestream last night was pure over-the-top fanservice.

[29F] This one’s straight out of the judges’ seats.

[31F] Yue Zhaolin… he gives me the illusion that he wants to spend his whole life with his fans.

[34F] Whispering here, but he looks like he has zero interest in the opposite sex (and, well, not the same sex either).

It’s hard to describe, but his stage does carry sexual tension.

[39F] Asexual?

[42F] Is he playing that kind of persona?

If it collapses, the dream girls will trample him to death.

[47F] Not sure if it’ll collapse or not.

But I don’t recommend him indulging fans too much—if they get spoiled, the moment he does something that doesn’t meet their expectations, backlash will follow.

[55F] True.

But Xingqiong should guide the fandom, right?

[58F] Definitely. Xingqiong has pushed so many artists, and Yue Zhaolin’s treatment is top-tier. Even the real crown prince has to step aside.

Fu Xunying’s fans have been protesting under Xingqiong’s official Weibo for ages—#GiveFuXunyingTheRoyalTreatmentHeDeserves#. Had me laughing so hard my face hurt.

[63F] Honestly, his resources are insane. It’s foreseeable that he’ll skyrocket right at debut.

He auditioned for Palace Chronicles. Rumor says one very important male role wasn’t given to anyone—directly reserved for Yue Zhaolin.

[67F] What role?

[71F] The main plot of Palace Chronicles is palace intrigue. Not many male characters: the emperor, eunuchs, princes… oh, and guards and ministers of the former dynasty.

The female lead is already confirmed as a triple Best Actress winner. The emperor is the male lead, so he can’t play that. Eunuch, erm… odds are higher it’ll be a prince or a guard.

[78F] I really want to see it. Even if he acts like trash, I’d still watch.

[81F] Before, they were using endless promises to raise Yue Zhaolin like a gu insect. Now it’s reversed—they’re using Yue Zhaolin to gild the promises.

Variety show guest slots, movie cameos, brand conferences—all “tentatively inviting Yue Zhaolin.” The most ridiculous one was a dating show observation-room guest.

[86F] Forget everything else, just talking about the songs he sang on livestream—several original singers actually posted on Douyin to thank him.

[91F] So realistic—at the end of the day, a celebrity still has to be popular.

[101F] Xiufen Super Topic is already betting on debut lineup and group name, but after debut it’ll just be one person carrying the whole group. Whether the group can last long is the real question.

[101F] In the older talent-show groups, contracts were two years. Group activities usually only lasted half a year. After that, someone’s missing, another one’s absent—you just get used to it.

[109F] Let’s see how GreenFruit manages things.

…

[602F] Here we go.

[607F] Sunflower seeds, soda, instant noodles.

[619F] For the third round song selection, the biggest drama will be verse rejecting Yue Zhaolin right on the spot—lmao.

[623F] If Starlight doesn’t kick this guy out, that’d be abnormal. He exposed his peers one by one during livestream. Could make half a deck of judgment slips just from what he said.

[628F] That rap variety show “Blue Pants” was supposed to premiere at the end of the month. Now it’s in jeopardy. If a show can’t air because of an artist, the artist’s side has to pay the penalty fee. His buddy might lose everything covering it—how could he not hate him?

[631F] Rap-circle history book entry: The Zhang Wei Incident.

[638F] So few people in the third round. Half were eliminated last time, the venue looks empty now.

[642F] Is this a mass-layoff move? Exactly like the second round. The program team loves to mess with people’s hearts. This kind of rule is especially unfriendly to the mid-to-low ranks.

…

[756F] Here’s a summary for everyone:

Vocal – Jia Ge, “Red Velvet and Rings,” yandere-style electronic music.

Dance #1 – Shao Meng, “Five Senses and Six Perceptions,” a trippy, intense knife group dance.

Dance #2 – Xu You, “AI,” the awakening of a sci-fi android.

Rap – one song “Playing with Ambiguity,” the anthem of a scumbag; another song “Relaxation.”

[761F] After listening to all six songs, “Playing with Ambiguity” really does feel fresh among the dance tracks. What a pity though—anyone made an AI cover of it with Yue Zhaolin’s voice yet?

[772F] Emperor Yue’s been busy lately, huh. Not only does he get his face swapped into every period drama with AI, now people want AI covers too. Another form of “the capable do more work.”

[779F] The entertainment industry has long suffered from ugly people.

[782F] C-ent is just full of misplacement.

Actors always have a stage dream—at galas they have to sing and dance. Idols always dream of acting—once they debut, they run straight into drama sets, leaving singing and dancing as side jobs.

[791F] And honestly, none of them do that well at either (pardon the harsh words).

…

[905F] When it came to team-picking, literally everyone was trying to guess which song Yue Zhaolin would choose. Is this the centripetal force of a true top?

[912F] So in demand.

[917F] He picked “Puppet on Strings.” The moment a few top-ranked ones joined Five Senses and Six Perceptions, everyone turned to look—only to see Yue Zhaolin wasn’t there either.

Turned back again, and—he’s with “Playing with Ambiguity.”

The sky just fell.

[921F] Over on “Puppet on Strings,” it’s wails and despair, while Tan Shen is grinning ear to ear. The contrast is brutal.

[927F] Don’t worry—give it a bit and he won’t be smiling anymore.

[942F] ……

[958F] ……

[972F] We already knew verse was brain-dead, but didn’t realize this brain-dead.

[979F] …Someone needs to uninstall Tomato Novel from his phone, stat.

[986F] Ah, damn.

[1002F] Crooked mouth, hand wave, shoulder shrug—the fake-relaxed three-piece set, huh? Watching that gave me the creeps. Toes curling into the floor. Seriously, bro, stop acting. It’s unsettling.

“Straight Talk,” “Marshmallow Boy,” “Playing House”—he dares to say it, but I don’t dare to listen.

[1010F] I’ve developed an illness where I just want to laugh whenever I see an ugly guy pretending to be cool.

[1017F] The barrage is half insults, half question marks.

[1023F] What’s this guy even trying to achieve?

[1043F] He’s definitely doing it on purpose—look at his expression.

As a mentor, clinging to that tiny bit of power to pick contestants in the third round, and then publicly making things hard for a trainee… what a show of authority. That’s gonna stick with him for life.

[1063F] The hip-hop circle has already revoked his membership. Total embarrassment.

[1075F] The seat-cutting came late, but it came.

[1109F] This could go down as one of the great spectacles in talent show history. Yue Zhaolin really got hit by a stray bullet.

[1124F] I think… is he maybe hoping Yue Zhaolin will pick him again?

Like, if Yue Zhaolin said, “I really like this song, I hope the teacher can give me another chance,” then he could act all conflicted, raising his own value.

Otherwise, why’s he staring at Yue Zhaolin with that expectant look? I don’t get it.

[1151F] !

[1167F] That interpretation… actually makes sense?

[1167F] Raise his value? More like inflating pork prices.

[1198F] His most popular track has been used by hundreds of thousands on Douyin. If he didn’t act up, maybe he couldn’t match a celebrity’s 2.08 million a day, but 28k a day would be guaranteed.

“Money that doesn’t match your level of awareness will return to the world in other ways—sometimes even with interest.” He’s living proof of that saying.

[1223F] Maybe it’s even more than 28k. Plenty of internet celebs went down because they floated too high.

[1335F] The production team must be grinning ear to ear. Too much drama—free publicity delivered right to their door.

[1447F] If the money-spending channel hadn’t been closed, poor Tide would probably have pulled in another huge chunk by now.

[1463F] Heard a rumor—the channel’s about to reopen.

[1475F] ? Any word on when?

[1503F] Not confirmed yet.

[1521F] Yue Zhaolin might not care, but in Tide’s eyes, he was wronged. Put harshly, isn’t this just a mentor targeting and b*llying him?

Took a gig on an idol talent show, and suddenly he’s probing the essence of rap—with Yue Zhaolin of all people?

What a joke.

[1540F] If it were me in the same situation—me, a certified crybaby—I’d already be bawling pathetically.

[1561F] But Yue Zhaolin’s reaction here feels off. His expression… hmm, way too calm.

[1572F] Script?

[1604F] Camera cuts, and suddenly Keep it Real-bro isn’t acting tough anymore.

[1661F] The trainees’ formation changed.

[1678F] Tan Shen: not hehe.

[1702F] I’ll bet a pack of chicken tendons the production team didn’t expect this guy to go off the rails, so they paused recording. Otherwise, why would the formation suddenly change?

[1725F] So was it scripted or not?

[1768F] Judging by the outcome, at least this Keep it Real-bro wasn’t acting—he really lost it live and dragged others down with him. But Yue Zhaolin’s reaction… now that is thought-provoking.

[1794F] He gives me the feeling of, “Instead of wasting time tangling with this kind of person, better to just move on to another target.” A very efficient way to handle it.

But he was way too calm.

[1812F] Has he been put on the spot by people like this before? More than once, even—that’s why he handled it so smoothly.

[1842F] Huh? If you follow that line of thought, then the “tragic yet powerful” persona basically writes itself. Tide could mine this for endless material.

[1861F] At my school there are people like that too—dorm managers, security guards, counselors.

Within their limited bit of power, they go all out making life hard for others. It’s disgusting.

But honestly, guys have it way easier than girls. Rarely run into this kind of situation.

[1895F] So true…

[1912F] Back in school, as long as you were male, life was way smoother.

Yue Zhaolin probably wasn’t b*llied. He’s got that cold, self-serving kind of personality—never lets emotions drive his actions.

[1945F] He went to “Puppet on Strings”!

[1989F] Li Ying is grinning ear to ear.

[2015F] The livestream comments are already shipping the two of them.

[2048F] Bullet comments really have no limits. Didn’t Tide and Li Ying’s fan “Raccoon” just have a spat earlier?

[2089F] Yeah—back when the third round got re-recorded, the public was overwhelmingly bashing Yue Zhaolin. Tide said, “It wasn’t Yue Zhaolin who asked for the re-record, it was Li Ying.”

Raccoon argued it had nothing to do with Li Ying, and accused Tide of dumping the blame.

That’s how the feud started.

[2123F] Raccoon said Yue Zhaolin has to bow to Li Ying whenever he sees him, making his fans lose face for their idol. Tide fired back that Raccoon was just pulling rank and being unreasonable.

[2208F] Raccoon in the chat said that Yue Zhaolin is just a “loss-making resale product.” Li Ying only took him in out of kindness…

[2249F] ? Gross. Is this a disguised anti?

[2275F] Words like “loss-making product” and “foot-washing maid” are way too harsh, they make me physically uncomfortable.

[2312F] Reasonable suspicion this is Li Ying’s rival fanbase at work.

[2367F] Oh damn.

[2401F] Li Ying: “I discussed possible collab stages with the mentors earlier. Everyone wanted to pick Zhaolin. Not kidding, everyone sees him as one of their five biggest competitors.”

Background audio: “So after Teacher Zhang Wei rejected Yue Zhaolin, what did you think?”

Li Ying: “That I got to pick up a bargain.”

Post-performance interview with the PD.

[2457F] (:з」∠)

[2494F] Background audio: “Teacher Xu, you also wanted to choose Yue Zhaolin?”

Xu You: “Who wouldn’t want Zhaolin as a teammate? If I can’t get him, then I’ll deal with it.”

[2512F] The hottest trainee will always be fought over by the mentors, but wow, Old Xu is way too blunt—he made it sound like there’s real gunpowder between the mentors.

[2567F] Raccoon went silent.

[2589F] Li Ying is hilarious. What the hell is “picking up a bargain” hahaha. Raccoon must’ve heard this. Now we’ve got official confirmation straight from the source—Zhaolin was the first choice.

[2621F] Just wait, the moment the “enemy” gets along with their idol, there’ll definitely be fans dropping out / bots submitting exposé posts.

[2675F] Honestly, this whole thing wasn’t that big a deal. Fans just projected their own feelings into it. Once the idol himself is seen “making peace” with the enemy, that’s when fans turn around and leave nasty parting shots.

[2698F] The song selection is over, but I’m guessing this episode won’t be showing Puppet on Strings.

[2714F] For sure.

Knowing this show’s style, they’ll just throw in a teaser at the end and air it next episode.

[2745F] The first group is Relaxation.

[2783F] They’ve started vocal practice.

[2794F] Watching this makes me so uncomfortable… This bunch of trainees gives me the feeling they’re just fooling around, not really showing respect to Nana. Why does their tone automatically turn all giggly when they talk to her?

Is it because Nana looks cute and her accent doesn’t carry any authority?

[2823F] That Zhu Zhu guy from Zhihu is laughing the loudest.

[2856F] Execute them all!!!!

[2897F] You’re here to practice, not to star in a dating show—take it seriously!

…

[3212F] Awful.

[3278F] Can these guys stop using vocal fry already? What, do they have a motorcycle stuck in their throats?! The song’s called Relaxation, not Greasy!

[3301F] Execute them all!

…

[3538F] The group doing “Playing with Ambiguity” didn’t even get any mentor screentime, the editing team is so pitiful.

[3556F] Wait, we’re already at the stage? The stage editing is trash too, wasn’t there a re-record?

[3559F] If you only look at Tan Shen’s part, the stage effect is surprisingly decent…

[3601F] Tan Shen’s rap is solid. He’ll probably ride along into debut, but it’s not like he’s useless—boy groups these days can’t do without rap. Compared to those monotone “white-voice scripture-chanting” types, at least Tan Shen doesn’t make your ears bleed.

[3625F] Hold up, bottom right corner seems to have some text: “Due to schedule adjustments, an extra update will be released tomorrow night.” …What does that mean?!

[3665F] Holy sh*t—

[3667F] Emperor Yue’s doll makeup look.

<< _ >>

The post Royal Ch.98 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Ji Ruwen looked around. At the moment, he seemed to be inside a room resembling a laboratory; one of the walls was even made of one-way glass.

There was still a needle stuck in his wrist. After sitting up and taking a moment to steady himself, he finally remembered what had happened before he fell unconscious.

It seemed that he had… been bitten by some kind of gigantic mosquito.

And then—

“Mibao!”

Ji Ruwen’s eyes flew wide open.

Right, he needed to find Mibao!

At the thought, Ji Ruwen hastily yanked the IV out of his hand, then lifted the blanket covering him…

Uh—why wasn’t he wearing clothes?

Stunned for two seconds, Ji Ruwen quickly pulled the blanket back over himself.

Meanwhile, the people outside heard the beeping coming from inside the lab, immediately realizing that the man in the room had woken up.

“Go inform Captain Liang—tell him the one they brought back is awake.”

A man in a white lab coat gave instructions to his assistant while pushing open the door to enter.

Seeing someone come in, Ji Ruwen immediately looked over. “Hello, I…”

“Hello, Mr. Ji.” The man in the white coat gave him a polite smile. “I know you must have a lot of questions right now. Don’t worry, I can answer them slowly—what would you like to ask first?”

Ji Ruwen: “…Could I have some clothes?”

He really wasn’t comfortable talking to people while naked.

Even with the blanket covering him.

“…Ah, I forgot about that.” The man in the white coat paused a second, then resumed smiling. “Please wait, I’ll fetch some clothes for you.”

With that, he quietly stepped out of the room.

Ten minutes later, Ji Ruwen—now dressed in a white sweater paired with black pants—took the cup of hot water handed to him by the lab coat.

“Sorry, we don’t have spare clothes here, so I just brought you one of mine. I hope you don’t mind.”

Ji Ruwen shook his head. “Not at all, thank you.”

He was tall and well-built, but the clothes from the man in the lab coat were a little short on him, leaving his ankles exposed.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too cold here.

“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Yu Tao—my major was biology, with a secondary focus on medicine. I used to be a professor at A University… I recall you graduated from A University as well.”

Professor Yu Tao was in his forties, with proper, refined features, carrying himself with politeness and courtesy.

Ji Ruwen searched his memory carefully and finally dredged up a vague recollection of him.

Since Ji Ruwen had majored in finance back in university, he hadn’t had much contact with Yu Tao.

“So it’s Professor Yu,” Ji Ruwen said in realization. Perhaps because they were both from A University, he felt a bit more favorably toward him. “May I ask what exactly happened to me? And… where am I?”

Yu Tao seemed to have expected that question, because he smiled lightly before beginning to explain.

“A month ago, you were bitten by a mutant mosquito. However, you didn’t immediately turn into a zombie, so Captain Liang and the others brought you back here…”

“Wait—a month ago!?”

Ji Ruwen nearly choked on his water, his eyes going wide in shock as he blurted out.

He was so shaken that even his voice cracked.

Yu Tao nodded. “Yes, you’ve been unconscious for a month. But don’t worry—your physical indicators are all perfectly normal. In fact, that’s exactly what I wanted to say—”

“A month…”

But Ji Ruwen couldn’t hear a word of Yu Tao’s explanation. His face had gone completely blank as he muttered the words over and over.

“A whole month… I’ve been lying there for a month…”

Yu Tao frowned slightly, feeling that the man before him was slipping into a daze. He reached out and gave Ji Ruwen’s shoulder a light pat. “Mr. Ji? Mr. Ji?”

“A month… I… I…”

Ji Ruwen was completely lost in his own world.

Yu Tao: “……”

Alright, it looked like communication wasn’t possible for the time being.

Knock, knock.

At that moment, the door to the room was pushed open. Yu Tao turned his head and saw Liang Shaoqing walk in with his teammate Bai Qi.

“Professor Yu.”

Liang Shaoqing gave Yu Tao a polite nod in greeting.

Bai Qi also waved casually, then went straight up to Ji Ruwen, patting him on the shoulder. “Brother, still remember me?”

Ji Ruwen: “A whole month… Is Mibao still alive… How could I sleep for so long…”

Bai Qi: “……”

This guy was out of it—muttering nonsense like he’d gone crazy.

“Captain, is he still not fully awake?” Bai Qi couldn’t help whispering to Liang Shaoqing.

Liang Shaoqing shot him a flat look. “I’d say it’s you who’s not awake.”

With that, he stepped forward to face Ji Ruwen. “Mr. Ji, you’re worried about your daughter, aren’t you?”

At those words, Ji Ruwen finally stopped his dazed murmuring and lifted his head to look at Liang Shaoqing.

He remembered Liang Shaoqing. He remembered Bai Qi too.

They were the ones who had saved him a month ago.

“Do you have any news about my daughter?” Ji Ruwen asked, his face filled with desperate hope.

But Liang Shaoqing shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lie to you.”

Ji Ruwen’s eyes dimmed once more.

“Hey now, don’t be like that! Your daughter’s definitely still alive. You’ll find her if you keep looking, won’t you?” Bai Qi blurted out, trying to comfort him.

Ji Ruwen turned his gaze on him. “And how do you know my daughter’s still alive?”

Bai Qi: “……”

He… didn’t know.

This wasn’t anything more than a casual attempt at comfort.

In the end, it was Ji Ruwen himself who slowly worked through the emotions, calming down after a while.

From Yu Tao and the others, he finally learned the whole story—

He had been brought back to Beijing by Liang Shaoqing’s squad. But the situation there hadn’t been good either, so before long, they joined the larger evacuation force and moved to the nearest safe base.

That was the Oasis Base, located near the Taihang Mountains.

The area had relatively few zombies in the early stages, making cleanup easier. It was also situated at high ground, easy to defend and hard to attack, with a clear vantage point for spotting zombies and other monsters.

Most importantly, beneath it lay a large underground shelter, perfect for housing survivors.

Thus, a safe base was established here.

Elsewhere across the country, other bases had also been set up—for instance, the Southern Base and Sky Eye Base down south, and further north, the Northern Base.

“…We’re in the shelter now. This is where Professor Yu and several other scientists conduct their experiments,” Liang Shaoqing explained. “And your case is rather unique.”

Ji Ruwen frowned. “Because I was infected but didn’t turn into a zombie?”

“You could put it that way.” Liang Shaoqing nodded. “You’re an exception. After we brought you back, you were in a dangerously unstable state, on the verge of zombification. It wasn’t until a week ago that your condition finally stabilized.”

At that, Yu Tao added, “Based on my analysis, the zombie mosquitoes mainly drain their victims dry. That means their virus is relatively weaker in aggression—combined with your strong will to survive, you managed to pull through.”

Hearing all this, Ji Ruwen finally let out a breath of relief.

Good… thank goodness he was still alive.

Alive, with his own consciousness intact.

Otherwise… his Mibao would truly have no family left in this world.

<< _ >>

The post Baby Ch.32 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

“Ahem… kids don’t know any better.”

Off to the side, Chaoyang gave a little cough to smooth things over for his “cheap” sister.

“But it’s true, isn’t it? Uncles, aunties, it’s already the apocalypse. You can’t possibly expect us kids to be the ones protecting you, right?”

The adults: “……”

…Fair point.

If they really had to rely on a few children to protect them, they might as well throw away their pride.

“Cough, cough… w-we didn’t mean it like that,” Wang Defa spoke up weakly. “It’s just… we need some time to adjust, you know?”

Chaolu stroked her chin at that.

Hmm…

That was reasonable too.

These adults had never faced danger before—let alone fighting zombies, they probably couldn’t even run properly if they had to.

“Alright then, I’ll train you,” Chaolu’s eyes lit up as she came up with an idea. “I don’t have to go to school anymore anyway, I’ve got all the time in the world! Let’s start by training your courage!”

The adults: ???

…Train how?

By noon, they found out—

Chaolu had actually dragged back a zombie!

They were resting at a farmhouse near the highway. The adults had just finished lunch and were about to take a nap when Wang Defa went out to relieve himself. That was when he saw, right there in the courtyard, a zombie with a rope looped tight around its neck. The sight scared him so badly his urge to pee vanished instantly.

“Ahhhh! Zombie! Ahhhh!”

He scrambled back inside in a panic, practically rolling on the ground, too terrified to even close the door behind him.

The other adults inside the house heard him and immediately erupted into terrified shrieks, wailing like banshees—so loud they even drew the attention of zombies in the distance.

Chaolu, out in the courtyard: “……”

Mibao and Chaoyang, who were trying to nap inside: “……”

…So noisy.

The noise ended their nap, so the two of them got up, rubbing their eyes as they opened the door.

And then—

They just happened to see Wang Defa scrambling and tumbling past their doorway.

Mibao: “……”

Chaoyang: “……”

“…Brother Chaoyang, what’s Uncle Wang doing?” Mibao stared blankly for a few seconds before looking up at him. “Is he trying to be a turtle?”

Only turtles crawled like that.

Chaoyang took a deep breath. “He’s scared out of his wits.”

Chaolu had discussed the zombie-catching plan with him beforehand, so he knew there should be a zombie in the courtyard right now.

Half an hour later, the old house finally quieted down.

By then, the adults had also finished listening to Chaolu’s explanation—and all of them wore expressions of utter despair.

So… from now on, except when they were asleep, they’d have to stay together with that zombie?

Even during meals?!

Good lord, how were they supposed to eat like that?

That zombie wasn’t just scary-looking, it reeked horribly too…

Ugh.

Just thinking about it made them want to vomit.

“No refusing!” Chaolu lifted her chin with a stern expression. “You’re all way too timid. Just now, the moment you saw a zombie, you were screaming your heads off! If it hadn’t been tied up, you’d all be dead by now!”

Hearing that, the adults guiltily lowered their heads.

…Alright. Maybe they had panicked a little.

“So, starting today, we’re training your courage—until the day you can face a zombie suddenly popping out without screaming in fear.”

Chaolu declared firmly.

The adults’ faces instantly filled with despair.

How long would that take?!

“And you two as well,” Chaolu suddenly turned to Chaoyang and Mibao, who were watching the show from the sidelines. “From today on, everyone trains with me!”

Everyone: “……”

The sky is falling!

…

Mibao and Chaoyang didn’t need courage training, so the next day they were made to start running laps around the courtyard instead.

In Chaolu’s words: “You two don’t have the strength to fight zombies, but at the very least you need the ability to run away!”

So, the only thing the two little ones had to practice was running.

While the two of them jogged laps around the yard, Chaolu spent her time using the zombie to scare the adults.

The adults screamed and shrieked every time, their noise often attracting nearby zombies.

As a result, Chaolu had to split her attention—training the adults while also scrambling up the courtyard wall to shoot arrows at any zombies that came too close.

Since arrows were being used up too quickly, Chaolu even had to lead the adults into chopping down trees and making new ones.

Every day was exhausting.

After a whole week of this, the adults finally began to adapt to being around zombies.

They had no choice—no matter how scared they were, seeing one every single day, being jolted awake by terror over and over… eventually, you just get used to it.

Besides, screaming in fear was tiring too.

“Very good. Next, you need to learn how to strike at zombies!”

Chaolu looked at the adults with a face full of satisfaction.

She might have been small in stature, but her presence was commanding.

By now, the adults had completely started treating her like a little teacher.

“Teacher Chaolu, w-we can manage hiding from zombies, but actually killing them… we just don’t have the courage,” Li Xiangyu stammered.

The others nodded quickly in agreement.

Chaolu clapped her hands. “Courage is built through training! The fact that you don’t scream anymore when you see one is already the greatest proof!”

The adults: “……”

Couldn’t they get just a little break?

“Uncles, aunties, you can do it!” Mibao, who was still running laps, saw the adults’ discouraged expressions. She raised her tiny fists to cheer them on: “You’re the best!”

Having shouted that, she went back to huffing and puffing as she kept on running.

This immediately made the adults too embarrassed to complain.

Look—even little Mibao could get up early every day and keep running. They were all grown adults; how could they admit they couldn’t endure as much hardship as a child?

“Train! We’ll train!” Wang Defa gritted his teeth.

The other adults clenched their jaws and nodded as well.

“There’s a zombie here, I’ll give you a demonstration.” Chaolu walked up to the zombie, which looked rather sluggish at this point. Holding a machete, she positioned it at the zombie’s neck. “When killing zombies, you must go for the head! Either chop it clean off, or smash it until it’s pulp!”

With that, Chaolu swung the blade down hard at the zombie’s head!

The zombie went still instantly.

The sight was a bit gruesome, and the adults couldn’t bear to watch.

But they forced themselves to endure the nausea and look closely, learning from her movements.

Even Chaoyang, who was still running, didn’t cover Mibao’s eyes. Instead, he let her watch.

Children shouldn’t have to see something so bloody, but… this was the apocalypse.

So sooner or later, she’d have to face it.

Rather than letting Mibao grow up as a fragile hothouse flower, it was better to cultivate her ability to protect herself.

And clearly, Mibao’s tolerance was stronger than Chaoyang had expected.

Maybe it was because she had witnessed the death of the convenience-store sister on the very first day of the apocalypse… or maybe it was because her “system brother” had told her that after dying, that sister would still exist as a system.

So in Mibao’s mind, everyone who died was simply living on in another world.

That was why she wasn’t afraid.

Time passed bit by bit, and before long, they had already spent half a month there.

—

At the same time, Ji Ruwen—who had been unconscious for nearly a month—finally woke up.

The moment he opened his eyes, Ji Ruwen felt as if his whole body had stiffened into a steel plate. It took him a long while before he could finally sit up.

<< _ >>

The post Baby Ch.31 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Thanks to Li Xu’s earlier “warning shot,” Lai Yudong thought he was mentally prepared for anything—no matter what remote corner he’d be dragged into next, he wouldn’t be surprised.

That was, until Li Xu nimbly climbed out of the first-floor bathroom window.

“……”

Lai Yudong stood frozen at the window, dumbfounded.

You can do that?

“What are you spacing out for?” A fiery-red head popped out from outside the window. Seeing his roommate stuck in place with no follow-up action, Li Xu clicked his tongue and explained patiently, “This route avoids the cameras. Much safer—don’t tell me you’re too scared to climb out a window?”

Lai Yudong shot him a speechless look, then used action to prove that his lack of coordination only applied to dancing.

The two of them successfully slipped out of the dorm building, but that was only the beginning.

Li Xu led Lai Yudong with practiced ease, dodging security personnel and steering clear of the usual commuting paths. It was a rest day, so it wasn’t likely anyone would be foolish enough to lie in wait—but to be safe, detours were better.

Lai Yudong had to admit, Li Xu’s ability to avoid cameras was on par with 007. Even with his built-in “barrage system,” Lai Yudong couldn’t remember the locations of all the cameras this clearly.

Eventually, the two of them stopped in front of a wall wrapped in greenery.

Lai Yudong craned his neck, cautiously testing: “Don’t tell me you’re planning to—”

“Exactly what you’re thinking.”

Li Xu placed a foot on the nearby iron railing. The wall wasn’t very high; with just a few quick moves, he climbed to the top and pushed off, flipping easily over the other side.

It was hard not to suspect that skipping class had been his major in school.

Separated by the railing, Lai Yudong looked at him, suddenly hit by the uncanny impression of visiting someone in prison.

He couldn’t understand how things had escalated to this point.

Whether it was climbing over to mess around with him, or politely refusing and leaving, neither seemed like the best choice.

Lai Yudong tried to guess his intention: “No signal? You sneaked out to use the internet?”

The corner of Li Xu’s mouth twitched. “Do you think I’m some internet-addicted kid?”

“Huh, aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” Li Xu snapped, “Quit dawdling, come on. I’m not going to sell you off.”

After a moment’s thought, Lai Yudong mimicked Li Xu’s moves and climbed over. With his long legs, it was even easier for him—just a little push up, one lift of his leg, and he was over.

Now they weren’t just sneaking out of the dormitory building—they had completely escaped the filming site, forcibly unlocking a brand-new map outside the dungeon.

No wonder Li Xu had deliberately said what he did in front of the camera—his plan was to give their long disappearance a reasonable excuse. Otherwise, viewers would be searching everywhere for the two of them, only to know they had gone to the bathroom together… and then vanished into thin air.

“Here, wear this.”

Lai Yudong took the knitted hat, mask, and sunglasses that Li Xu pulled out of his pocket, helplessly bundling himself up tight. He was becoming increasingly curious what exactly this “good roommate” of his was plotting.

At this point, if Li Xu said they were teaming up to assassinate a video-streaming platform, Lai Yudong would probably believe it.

Five minutes later.

The two of them stood side by side at a deserted bus stop. The remote filming location was rarely visited, and the atmosphere was strangely eerie.

“What are we doing?” Lai Yudong couldn’t help asking.

Li Xu calmly replied, “Waiting for takeout.”

Lai Yudong: “Makes sense.”

Lai Yudong: “…Wait, hold on. Takeout??”

Li Xu, hands casually in his pockets, said matter-of-factly: “Yeah, I ordered a two-person set from Kaifeng Cuisine. Too bad today isn’t Crazy Thursday.”

“……”

A string of words that felt worlds away from their current reality popped out one after another. Lai Yudong stared wide-eyed in shock, trying to read some trace of a joke from Li Xu’s face—only to find that he actually seemed serious.

It was over the top, but… when it came to rappers, nothing was really out of the question.

Unable to hold back his curiosity, Lai Yudong asked, “Where did you even get takeout from?”

Li Xu dropped another bomb: “Got a fan to order it.”

“A… fan?”

“Mm, your fan.”

Lai Yudong: “?”

Good grief. Some idols got exposed for secretly dating fans and caused a huge scandal—yet here was this rapper, secretly contacting a fan just to order takeout? And not even his own fan, but someone else’s?

Wasn’t this… a bit ridiculous?

If word ever got out—

Would it be a bloodbath? Would this count as a career-ending scandal?

“Relax, I was kidding. I ordered it off a delivery app,” Li Xu said lazily, dropping the act. “How would I even have the ability to reach your fans? What am I supposed to do, mass-text them, ‘I’m trapped in Climbing to Stardom, send me 50 yuan and I’ll repay you handsomely later’?”

Lai Yudong let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I was worried you’d get cyberb*llied.”

“You really do think too far ahead,” Li Xu muttered.

In just a few minutes, a delivery rider in a bright red company uniform pulled up in front of them on an electric scooter. He set down the insulated box strapped to the back, then pulled out a large kraft paper bag along with two drinks.

After double-checking the order, he hopped back on the scooter and drove off, leaving the roommates standing there with the takeout.

If he hadn’t been one of the participants himself, Lai Yudong would’ve thought this scene belonged in some absurdist comedy movie.

He couldn’t pinpoint what was funny about it—but the whole thing just felt ridiculous.

“So,” Lai Yudong said, holding up the paper takeout bag with a helpless smile, “you brought me out here just to feed me?”

Li Xu shot him a sidelong glance. “Didn’t you say you wanted to eat?”

“When did I ever say that?” Lai Yudong couldn’t recall ever saying something like that to him.

Li Xu clicked his tongue. “During the livestream.”

“……”

Lai Yudong thought back—sure enough, when he was reading the comments at the start, he had casually mentioned wanting fried chicken. He hadn’t expected to have an Aladdin’s lamp as a roommate, who only had to rub his phone and instantly made it happen.

No wonder Li Xu had been sneaking around the hallway earlier—it was just him looking for a spot without cameras to watch the stream.

Even so, Lai Yudong couldn’t understand why Li Xu went this far. He was being way too good to him. Even if he thought of it as goodwill between fans of the same idol, it still didn’t make sense—by that logic, shouldn’t he have brought Xu An out instead?

He had nothing to give in return, which made him feel a little embarrassed.

“The extra food is just incidental. Think of it as a trivial little reward,” Li Xu said, sitting down on the empty bench at the bus stop. His sunglasses slipped halfway down the bridge of his nose, and through the lenses he gave the dazed, blond-haired boy a glance. “But the heart-to-heart part? That’s real. Although saying it like that does sound a bit corny.”

He tugged down his mask and took a sip of Coke, his voice muffled: “Let’s just call it a casual chat.”

“Alright.” Lai Yudong quietly sat down as well.

Don’t be fooled by Li Xu’s cocky, nothing-bothers-me exterior. He was terrible at hiding emotions, but his thoughts were much more delicate than he let on—otherwise, he wouldn’t have hidden in the bathroom to cry.

The key point was, he was so stubbornly prideful. If he had cried in front of the cameras, the contrast alone might have won him fans.

When someone with that kind of personality personally asks for a heart-to-heart, you had to take it seriously.

From the kraft paper bag, Li Xu pulled out a burger. The rustle of the greaseproof paper filled the silence as he unwrapped it.

“Miura,” he said, “I suggest you don’t play up the bromance.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

So much for all that mood he’d carefully been building up.

“I’ll break it down for you—not saying I’m 100% right. You can listen if you want, or ignore me if you don’t.”

Li Xu completely disregarded Lai Yudong’s subtle expression, offering his analysis with a straight face:

“A boy group can shoot up in popularity by playing the bromance angle. Just look at Qu Junwei and Cheng Jinghao, those two idiots—stuck together all day like glue, acting like they’d rather share the same bed.”

Lai Yudong looked surprised. “Aren’t they just… close friends?”

Though he hadn’t interacted much with them personally, their love-hate dynamic was well-known from the very first stage up through the second performance. To him, they seemed like a pair of bickering rivals who actually respected each other deep down.

“Friends, my ass. It’s all for the CP fans to eat up,” Li Xu rolled his eyes. “One’s a returning contestant who relies on fanservice to pull in fresh blood, the other’s a nobody who saw the other’s pre-show popularity and decided to ride the wave. It’s mutually beneficial, that’s all.”

“R-Really?”

“Of course. What kind of idiot would genuinely want to be lovey-dovey with the rival who kicked him out of Class A during the very first stage?” Li Xu gave a mocking laugh. “Just wait and see—they’ll go full-on angst next, bleeding their CP fans dry for purity points. Question is, who makes the first move.”

Lai Yudong half-understood, nodding slowly. “So complicated.”

“That’s why you can’t just blindly latch onto someone and play it up. Especially don’t be dumb enough to let someone with bad intentions cling onto you,” Li Xu said around a bite of his burger. “If you start a CP with someone less popular, and their core fans push the narrative, you’ll end up being the one drained dry.”

“What’s more, most of the existing CP pairings are trying to drag you into their scandals—stuff like ‘Yi Bo San Zhe,’ ‘Zi Xu Wu Yu,’ ‘Feng Chang Yu Xi.’ You’re practically turning into the industry’s No.1 CP commodity. Spend a little more time in domestic RPS circles and you’ll see: in most cases, the one labeled as ‘flower’ in the pairing is just a walking blood bank. And plenty of people already have their eyes on you as fresh meat.”

“Not that there aren’t CPs trying to cast you as the ‘flower(bottom)’ too. What was it called again…” Li Xu rummaged through his memory for the tongue-twisting ship names. “Oh right—‘White Ash Tree’ and ‘Equation of Dai Shu.’”

He broke it down one by one:

“The face-visual line is fine—‘as long as the looks are there, the kingdom stands.’ The face-con fans won’t be swayed much by drama between their idols. The only thing that’ll make them leave is if your looks start to fade. But here’s the thing—if you try to ship yourself with the Crown Prince, the two of you overlap in positioning, and your skills and backing can’t compare to his. In my opinion, that’s basically asking for death. You can try to grab a slice of the pie, but if you get greedy, it’ll blow up in your face.”

“Bai Xuanhe is actually a good candidate, but he already has his own big CP—‘Bai-Jin.’ You’d have to wait until Jin Xiheng gets eliminated and the Bai-Jin ship sinks before you could move in. Still, their second performance will probably reel in another wave of fans, so it won’t collapse anytime soon.”

“Actually, you don’t have to limit yourself to just one person. A love triangle works too—advance when you can, retreat when you must. The only risk is it might get reduced to a healing back-garden type of thing. Like that pretty popular ‘Eagle-Taming Project’ or ‘Yan and You Xin.’ To put it simply, it turns into ‘all-Su’ and ‘all-Qu.’”

“Anyway, that’s the gist. You think it over.”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Listening to you is like… listening to you.

Wait—why does none of this make sense to him?

Was this some kind of talent-show scripture only the initiated could read?

It felt like he’d just pushed open the door to a whole new world.

“From what I’ve observed these past few days of your fan circle ecosystem, you mainly feed off solo fans. And the endpoint of selling CPs is always filtering those solo fans into purer, hardcore solos. So if you skip the middleman and go straight to building up your solo fanbase—you save yourself a few years of detours. Jackpot.” Li Xu took another bite of his burger. “Besides, I don’t think you have the heart to torment your fans just for purification. Better to stabilize your solos. They’re the ones who can grow into the long-term diehard fans. Especially when, in the third stage, people can only vote for one contestant—your OP is what matters most.”

“What’s OP?”

“One pick. So—did you get all that?”

Enlightened all of a sudden, Lai Yudong let out an “ah”: “Got it. You’re my toxic solo stan.”

“…There aren’t any cameras here. Do you believe I won’t beat you up?”

“You probably couldn’t take me.”

“?”

Seeing that Li Xu really looked like he might punch him, Lai Yudong hurriedly cut the joke short with a smile.

“Even if I don’t quite understand all the twists and turns in this, thank you for telling me.”

Li Xu raised his brows. “So what you’re saying is?”

“Don’t worry, I have no such plans, and I never will.”

Lai Yudong looked straight at the red-haired boy holding half a burger, his tone soft yet firm.

“When it comes to relationships, I follow my own principles—everything depends on how I truly feel about the other person, not on constructing some relationship just because others want to see it.”

Almost like a sigh, he added quietly:

“I don’t like that.”

Meeting those utterly sincere, flawless dark eyes, Li Xu began to understand the fans who traveled from far away, staying up until dawn just for a fleeting glimpse of him.

In a talent show—and an entertainment industry—so muddy and tainted, his roommate was like a clear stream, always treating everything with the most genuine attitude. It was as if he was holding a diamond heart in both hands, perfectly transparent, yet wrapped in an unbreakable layer of tempered glass.

Willing to bare his heart, but never easily swayed by the outside world.

Li Xu gave a flat “oh” in response, took a long sip of Coke, and said dully:

“There’s one more thing I want to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“From now on, in front of the cameras… can we not act so close?”

<< _ >>

The post Trainee Ch.58 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Two minutes ago, Fu Xunying was still lying on his dorm bed watching the livestream.

Someone knocked on Yue Zhaolin’s door but didn’t say anything, and Fu Xunying got curious. He slipped on his slippers, got out of bed, pulled the door open—and hey, wasn’t this the Zhihu Bro guy?

Fu Xunying had never had a pleasant expression for him, so he asked right away:

“What do you want?”

Previously, Zhu Zhu had spread a whole load of rumors on Zhihu, dragging down the entire upper circle, yet he had never once lowered his head to apologize to anyone.

But then, on camera, he’d put on the act of being a good brother. And if others didn’t want to play along, he’d just pull a long horse face, as if they owed him something.

That kind of shameless righteousness made Fu Xunying even more convinced that his brain wasn’t screwed on right.

So what business could he have with Yue Zhaolin?

“You—”

Zhu Zhu was startled by Fu Xunying. Not wanting to get entangled with him, he tried to push the door open and go straight in.

His actions and expression perfectly illustrated the saying “no three hundred taels of silver buried here.”

Even a fool like Fu Xunying could tell the guy was up to no good.

“Damn it, what are you trying to do?”

His own dorm room was close to Yue Zhaolin’s, so Fu Xunying rushed over and physically blocked him.

Hearing the commotion, the trainee managers watching the livestream from an empty room nearby opened their door, only to see the two of them shoving each other. They couldn’t help shouting out loud.

Fu Xunying was a delicate rich young master, while Zhu Zhu was stronger. Losing the upper hand, Fu Xunying slammed against the door panel with a bang, the back of his head ringing from the impact.

The two trainee managers were dumbfounded—what on earth had gotten into Zhu Zhu?

Not until Yue Zhaolin opened the door, when Zhu Zhu’s nostrils flared with excitement and he shrieked out that performance of his, did the trainee managers’ expressions twist in disbelief.

He deliberately chose to shout it out on livestream—did he really think there wouldn’t be consequences for Yue Zhaolin?

Perhaps the bullying controversy would cling to Yue Zhaolin, but something he hadn’t done was something he hadn’t done. Clearing it up would be as simple as releasing the hallway surveillance footage.

Besides, Zhu Zhu had spread rumors in a high-traffic livestream. That made it serious.

If Yue Zhaolin’s commercial value were affected because of this, Xingqiong and the production team could even sue him for “damaging reputation.”

And since Zhu Zhu had managed to slip through the cracks this time, it would certainly count as negligence on both managers’ parts.

The trainee managers were so furious they practically wanted to wring Zhu Zhu’s neck, until—

Yue Zhaolin looked at Zhu Zhu, pinned down by the two managers, admired his expression for half a second, then smiled gently:

“I muted the livestream audio.”

The triumphant look on Zhu Zhu’s face froze solid, his eyes filled with disbelief.

The air went still.

The two managers, who had thought their careers might end right there, suddenly lit up with wild joy at this unexpected twist.

Fu Xunying laughed even louder, almost feral:

“Why isn’t the clown barking anymore? Oh right, the sound’s off—no audience. Who are you performing for?”

Zhu Zhu’s eyes widened:

“You—!”

Yue Zhaolin arched a brow, mischief sparking:

“Just kidding. I didn’t mute it.”

“What’s the matter? The moment I said I turned the sound off, you stopped acting?”

…He tricked him?!

Zhu Zhu’s face twitched as the realization sank in. He hadn’t checked his phone, so whether Yue Zhaolin had muted the sound or not was entirely his word.

He’d been duped. It was over.

Instead of smearing Yue Zhaolin, he’d only managed to disgrace himself.

Yue Zhaolin chuckled, toying with him like a dog: “No way… you actually believed me again?”

Zhu Zhu panted heavily.

Seeing the smug curve of Yue Zhaolin’s smile, adrenaline surged. He tore free from the managers’ grip and swung a fist straight at Yue Zhaolin’s face.

About to lash out in humiliation, Zhu Zhu moved too fast—Fu Xunying only had time to bark out a single syllable:

“Hey—!”

Then Yue Zhaolin grabbed Zhu Zhu’s arm and, with crisp efficiency, sent him flying with an over-the-shoulder throw.

Bang—!

Zhu Zhu let out a pig-like squeal.

For people like this, Yue Zhaolin always enjoyed kicking them while they were down. He deliberately crouched, lowered his head to look at Zhu Zhu, and said:

“Oh, I forgot to mention—I can fight.”

Zhu Zhu was dazed from the throw, but he must have heard that line. His eyes bulged like copper bells, his breathing rough like an ox.

Vision swimming, he saw Fu Xunying sprawled on the floor nearby:

“…Brother Zhaolin, amazing.”

Yue Zhaolin: “…”

This guy had always called him directly by name, and he’d gotten used to it. Since when was it “Brother Zhaolin”?

Fu Xunying rubbed the back of his head. Since Yue Zhaolin had basically avenged him, he asked, “Did you learn that somewhere? That throw was clean.”

“No. Just rough brawling.”

So the throw wasn’t exactly textbook.

But Zhu Zhu was seeing stars, couldn’t even get up, and lay on the ground groaning that his bones were broken.

When he was carried off, he was still yelling that Yue Zhaolin had used excessive force in self-defense, that he’d nearly been killed, and that he would sue.

The result of the examination: soft tissue bruising. A few days of ointment and he’d be good as new.

“…”

What a waste of space.

Before, he’d had at least some salvageable value. After all, moral scandals were nothing new in the industry. If capital decided to, they could still force him upward. But—

Capital didn’t mind fools. What they couldn’t accept was someone who was stupid and malicious and disobedient.

Meanwhile, with no sound from the livestream, the Tide fandom treated the scrolling comments like a group chat.

[No idea what’s happening outside]

[Did Yueyue go to watch the fun?]

[Little Moon is so cute ww]

[Saw a repo that Yueyue and Little Moon had a photo together at the third performance—will the show release it?]

[Time for the merch sites to rise up, I want a plushie of Little Moon, waaah]

[And one of Yueyue too, then put them together at home—wouldn’t that be a family of three?]

[Friendly reminder: your Labor Day holiday balance is running out; good news: only fifteen days left until the finals]

[Time to fight for finals tickets]

[Based on past survival shows, the tickets probably won’t all go on Damai, there should be other apps too. The official announcement should come in the next couple of days?]

[They used to do a three-sided stage, that’s fifteen thousand seats, my eyes just went black]

…

[Feels like he’s been gone a long time…]

[Little Moon, your dad still hasn’t come back]

…

[Still not back?]

[Worried]

[It’s been so long, did something happen?]

The barrage, lighthearted at first, gradually shifted toward unease.

After all, everyone had heard what sounded like people arguing outside earlier.

Just then, a figure stepped back into the frame.

Yue Zhaolin sat down at his desk again, pushed up the black-rimmed glasses on his nose, reached out, and switched the mic back on:

“I’m back.”

[Ahhhhh?!]

[Why did he change clothes—]

[Nosebleed…]

A thin beige sweater, neckline not very wide, showing a bit of his collarbone. But because the fabric was light, his collarbones pushed against it, outlining the shape beneath.

His unstyled hair fell over his forehead and partly covered his upper eyelids, giving him a different kind of allure.

Behind the black frames, the corners of his eyes looked soft and beautiful as he smiled at the screen.

[I have some very unholy thoughts]

[I want to kiss him]

[Don’t tell me that thin sweater isn’t seducing me? The straight line of his collarbone pushing up the fabric is way too sexy]

[This whole look is way too domestic, and at this hour it’s even more delicious—is this Husband Yue’s late-night whispering channel? Subscribed]

[That smile ahhh]

[Husband]

The barrage was filled with cries of “husband.”

The explosion of comments had already swept away the earlier worry. Tide was always easily satisfied—and always easily bewitched by Yue Zhaolin.

[Why does it feel like that expression is both helpless and indulgent at the same time]

[He’s too close, I’m so nervous, Yue Zhaolin stop going at me!!!]

[Daddy]

[Baby disappeared for so long—was it on purpose, just to set up this surprise?]

[Man, you’ve successfully piqued my interest (evil smirk.JPG)]

[As long as you’re willing to dedicate yourself to me, that’s enough]

Mm, the logic checked out.

Yue Zhaolin didn’t bother to explain, just smiled and asked:

“Shall we continue from where we left off? Or should we double-check with everyone—is this the song?”

He flipped his phone around and held it closer to the camera.

But his fingertip slipped, and it jumped back to the home screen. Aside from the app, in the top right corner was a small widget showing a photo.

Realizing it, Yue Zhaolin immediately pulled his hand back:

“Ah, hold on.”

His reaction was fast—almost like he really didn’t want anyone to see that photo.

[Huh?]

[We didn’t even get a clear look]

[What’s there that can’t be seen?]

[I know this move way too well. Back when I stanned K-pop idols—male idols’ lock screens would be photos of their secret girlfriends, then they’d panic and try to cover it up]

[Don’t spread rumors]

[I didn’t even say anything yet, why are the fans already so defensive? Did I hit a nerve?]

[At the live house, wasn’t he just acting? I don’t believe male idols think that far ahead. And the way it shot up the hot search—it’s all like a scripted drama]

[Overdone. Looks fake at first glance]

[What’s wrong with you?]

[That picture wasn’t even a person’s portrait. Try spreading another rumor, see what happens?]

It had only flashed for a moment on stream, but sharp-eyed viewers noticed it was something red.

[If it’s not a portrait, that makes it even harder to understand—why not just show it?]

[Red? Could be roses he gave his girlfriend, hehe]

[?]

[Got some kind of gatekeeping disease? Spouting your baseless imagination in this livestream, people will just think you’ve lost it. Can you get out?]

[Doesn’t matter—being stubborn is just standard behavior for low-IQ Mom-fans of male idols]

There were always hate comments during an idol’s livestream. If not managed, they could even be used later as a way to guilt-trip fans.

But judging from the ones leaving the hate, it didn’t necessarily mean they hated Yue Zhaolin—they simply enjoyed venting their malice in front of an audience.

If an idol showed discomfort, it only excited them more. That’s why most idols chose to endure and pretend they hadn’t seen such comments.

But Yue Zhaolin didn’t want to endure:

“You can attack me, but don’t attack my fans.”

He lifted his phone right up to the camera:

“Now, did you see clearly what it was?”

[Baby, don’t look at the hate comments]

[That’s…]

[A flower wall?!]

After the first public performance, the top nine trainees in the vote attended a fan meeting. Yue Zhaolin’s support site had decorated a huge, beautiful flower wall.

When the fan meeting ended, Yue Zhaolin had to rush to the set of R.E., and he had snapped a photo of it then.

The widget on his phone randomly displayed photos, and it just happened to land on this one.

But since the show officially required “closed training” where trainees couldn’t use phones, Yue Zhaolin had instinctively pulled his phone back.

He hadn’t expected that reflex to spark trouble.

It was his first flower wall, a very precious gesture of support.

[Baby…]

[More than once, I’ve felt it—Tide is truly cherished by Zhaolin]

[He only spoke up because Tide was being insulted]

[Yue Zhaolin, waaah, I want to spend money on you]

[I already screenshotted that person’s ID. I’ll look them up right away. What’s wrong with them, coming here to stir up trouble?]

[Clicked their profile—oh wow, stanning some ugly nobody from K-pop, don’t know a single one. Guess I’ll drag your fave into this too]

The ill-timed barrage of comments was quickly silenced when Yue Zhaolin himself spoke up firmly. Fans who had dug up his Weibo didn’t even have time to lash out or put on a tough front—they immediately switched on “one-click protection,” perfectly embodying what it means to be weak yet still love to play.

Yue Zhaolin didn’t bother with them any further. He focused instead on fulfilling the requests his fans made.

Over the next hour, he sang in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, and Japanese, one after another.

His pronunciation wasn’t accurate, his pitch wasn’t spot-on, and in some songs the female vocal parts were too high—without lowering the key, his real voice couldn’t reach them, and he ended up sounding like Mickey Mouse.

Even he couldn’t help laughing at himself, but he was genuinely happy.

It was an imperfect yet perfect, vivid, and real Yue Zhaolin, and an audience completely immersed in this atmosphere of intimacy.

The livestream felt like a beautiful dream.

Until the very last song ended.

“This really is the last one, because it’s very late now and everyone needs to sleep.”

He had already said “last one” several times, but the scrolling comments always begged him to stay just a little longer—just one more song, one more moment.

The reluctance came not only from the viewers, but from him too.

[Is it really ending?]

[I don’t want it to end.]

[Uuu, will you stream again tomorrow?]

[Didn’t the show give two days off? Please, production team, we got tonight’s stream—can’t we have another one tomorrow?]

Yue Zhaolin pressed his lips together. Knowing the show, they were likely aiming for scarcity, and probably wouldn’t allow another stream.

Looking at the flood of reluctant messages, he couldn’t quite figure out what to say as his closing words.

“…Goodbye, everyone. See you on finals night.”

Tomorrow, he’d be back to training.

Working hard for the finals.

—

The next day.

After Yue Zhaolin threw himself back into practice, Fu Xunying remembered last night’s barrage of comments. He also felt that streaming again today could be beneficial.

After all, all that sweat from training so earnestly—it was the kind of material that both tormented fans and strengthened their loyalty.

But then Fu Xunying thought again—

This person had never been one for gimmicks. He preferred to keep his head down, work solidly, and then stun everyone in one go.

<< _ >>

The post Royal Ch.97 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.

Lai Yudong chose to heal the pain of tonight’s public embarrassment with a steaming bowl of instant noodles.

Once someone cracked open the late-night snack option, the others couldn’t resist and quickly followed suit. The result: four bowls of instant noodles—generously provided by Zhou Rui—plus a self-heating hotpot spread across the table of dorm 707.

A rich aroma filled the room.

Liang Zhisheng pulled out a chair and sat down. Not only had he brought in all the clothes hanging outside, but he also reminded the others to crack open a window after showering later, so the dorm wouldn’t reek of food.

The rap lyrics of Silent Night surfaced in Lai Yudong’s mind. Staring at the four bowls of instant noodles waiting to cook, he suddenly felt like he was about to eat his “last meal.”

His head was full of thoughts, but not a single word came out.

That plain line—“I wish you peace and happiness”—fast-forwarded straight to the ending. By the time he came back to his senses, it was as if he had already been inoculated, unconsciously accepting Liang Zhisheng’s impending elimination. It spared them a lot of the dramatic, tear-jerking scenes.

Yet the sincerity behind those words carried a bitter sting.

Someone else was about to leave.

After a night weighed down with unspoken feelings, the next day, Lai Yudong was notified by the staff to head to the makeup room for a quick styling—there would be a half-hour livestream that evening.

“Livestream?” Lai Yudong was baffled.

“Yes. Since you placed in the top three on this round’s star ranking, you’ve unlocked the perk of having your own solo livestream room,” the staff member explained patiently, worried that this rumored socially anxious trainee might not handle a large audience alone. “Don’t worry, it’s easy. Just answer a few questions, read a couple of comments, interact with the fans a little—it’s light work.”

Lai Yudong replied, “Okay.”

Livestreaming—now that, he was used to.

He was forced to soak in livestream rooms every single day.

That evening, Lai Yudong arrived at the recording room ten minutes before the livestream began. He was seated in front of a phone, listening to the PD explain the basic flow while waiting for the staff to finish adjusting the equipment.

Since the system’s barrage comments and the livestream’s barrage comments were identical—but the latter had a delay and couldn’t sync up with the former—the overlapping effect was unbearable. He simply turned off the comments to free his eyes.

At exactly 8 p.m., the livestream started.

Hundreds of thousands of viewers who had been waiting rushed into the room all at once. The screen lagged for a few seconds before an endless stream of comments came pouring out like water from a spring. In the blink of an eye, a fresh flood had already replaced the last.

“Good evening, I’m Miura Yuki.”

The boy with pale golden hair smiled with his eyes as he waved. His soft bangs brushed against his cheeks, giving him a much gentler look than on stage. With only a light layer of foundation and a touch on his brows, he looked almost the same as bare-faced.

If one had to compare, it was the difference between no filter and a 10% beauty filter.

[Aaaaah it’s fresh Yuzu]

[Worth all the sleepless nights grinding that garbage ranking! /cry]

[Baby, have you eaten yet?]

[Mommy missed you so much!]

[Can you talk more today? We want to hear your voice]

At the staff’s signal, Lai Yudong lowered his head to the screen, picking out “lucky fans” to interact with. But he didn’t dare to read out complicated comments—he only chose the easier ones he could answer, just to keep the room lively.

“I’ve had dinner.”

“Stir-fried cabbage with pork, and steamed egg with meat patties.”

“The taste… well, light on salt and oil, good for dieting.”

“I want fried chicken and crayfish.”

As for questions like ‘Baby, what are you studying?’ or ‘Are you still in school, Yuzu?’—he guiltily skipped over all of them. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because those objective questions had “official answers” he dared not touch.

Even with the system guaranteeing that his real-life experiences could be copied over, he didn’t dare to trust it blindly. If something came up that didn’t match reality and couldn’t be explained, at best it would get him exposed on “black history” callout posts, at worst it might even spark an investigation.

Compared to that, highly subjective questions were much safer. Talking about food at mealtime was a good option—daily life topics could bring him closer to fans.

“—When are you going to eat wheat bran?”

Lai Yudong read out one of the comments word by word. Tilting his head in puzzlement, he then brightened as if he understood—deciding the awkward phrasing must just be missing a few characters.

“Wheat bran? I just had oatmeal porridge this morning.”

[?]

[Help]

[What did I just hear?]

[I’m dying, is this what a wild idol from C-ent looks like hahahaha]

[Reading everything out loud is only going to get you in trouble!!!]

[Isn’t anyone going to stop him…?]

[Isn’t this basically a livestream accident kkkkk]

[Great question! That’s very important to me!]

Lai Yudong: “?”

Did he… say something wrong?

He looked up in confusion. Across the phone, the staff were frantically signaling—waving their arms in an X across their chests, silently mouthing “Don’t ask,” “Skip it,” “Change the topic.”

…It really did seem serious.

Lai Yudong swallowed nervously. He had no idea what was happening, but the strange tension was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

No, seriously, he hadn’t said anything that bad, had he?

Weren’t they just asking when he last ate gluten? He really had had oatmeal porridge this morning.

Unless… was he supposed to have a gluten allergy in this setting?

While he was still racking his brain in confusion, the comments kept running with the topic—and were only growing more chaotic.

[Baby, that “wheat bran” isn’t the “wheat bran” you think it is…]

[Sorry, this little dummy really doesn’t get it hahahaha]

[What’s “maifu”?]

[My face is just as blank as Yuzu’s]

[Maifu = “mai fu” = fanservice/CP-baiting]

[The way he pronounced it so properly and clearly is killing me]

[Legend, the first man in the industry to openly say “mai fu”]

[The serious look on his face when he said he had oatmeal porridge—I can’t even bring myself to laugh]

[Yuzu just wants to answer every single question he sees equally /cry]

Lai Yudong: “……”

…Oh.

So it was a homophone!?

Whether it was during his cringy chuunibyo phase mixed with his interest in anime, or later when he’d scroll through trending topics, or even just from watching these past few days of comments, Lai Yudong had seen plenty of fangirls shipping male CPs. He’d even heard a bit about the phenomenon of “straight guys in entertainment faking gay fanservice.” It wasn’t anything new to him.

The problem was…

You can’t put a poor Broadcasting Student with only “Putonghua Level 1-B” through this kind of torment!

The first tone and the third tone sound totally different—who would’ve guessed the two words meant the same thing!?

Lai Yudong’s smile nearly slipped. Forcing himself to stay calm, he stared at the bustling comments, wanting to pick one to change the subject—but after a long while, he still couldn’t find a single safe one to read.

[Please don’t pull that industrial artificial-sweetener routine]

[Baby, are you watching? Don’t listen to the trolls! Sure, we dig for sugar, we make up rumors, we have our ways of shipping—but please don’t deliberately fanservice, I’m scared!]

[+1, I don’t want this fake digital candy]

[If an idol group won’t “mai fu,” then go home and farm sweet potatoes! We want fanservice, we want fanservice!]

[I want to see Yu-Zhe ascend together to the heavens within three days]

[Yuki supremacy]

[Yuzu x Yuzu Candy is already locked—keep out, demons and clout-chasers]

[Ugh, CP fans, can you not come make a mess in a solo livestream? This benefit was earned by the solo-fan base, what does it have to do with you?]

[This is so entertaining.jpg]

Lai Yudong: “……”

It was suddenly hard to smooth things over.

There were no bot accounts, no personal attacks, so the “green mode” couldn’t filter it out.

His mood didn’t fluctuate too much, but since the situation had been caused by his own mistake, he still felt somewhat guilty.

Livestream time was limited, and letting it get eaten up by arguments would just ruin the viewers’ mood.

Fortunately, at the critical moment, the staff stepped in: “We’ve collected some questions the Starseekers want to know about.”

Lai Yudong let out a breath of relief. “Okay.”

The staff took out a set of pre-prepared cue cards.

“What’s your zodiac sign?”

“Cancer, July 7.”

“Have you taken an MBTI test?”

“ENFJ? I think it was the Protagonist type.”

[You’re an E-person?]

[How could an ENFJ be socially anxious?]

[Must’ve been a mis-test, he should be an INFJ]

[No, social anxiety isn’t the same as being introverted. And being outgoing doesn’t mean extroverted. The key difference is whether you gain energy from being alone or from socializing.]

[Come on, have you seen how Yuzu treats his fans? And you still think he’s socially anxious?]

[Yuzu is pretty lively going to and from work]

[Slow to warm up doesn’t mean socially anxious, he admitted himself that he just gets shy around new people]

Lai Yudong’s eyelid twitched. He only had a shallow understanding of the recent trend of personality tests, and didn’t know what those letters specifically meant.

Luckily, the comments helped smooth it over for him, even clearing away the false label of “socially anxious.”

“What’s your favorite color?” the staff continued.

Without thinking, Lai Yudong replied, “Yellow-green.”

[Good one, that’s the support color]

[Who just said Yuzu was a little dummy! Doesn’t this show his brain works pretty quick?]

No—it was just a coincidence.

He hadn’t been trying to deliberately please fans; yellow-green really was his favorite color.

Apparently, the origin of the support color came from a fan vote. Yellow-green had been chosen to match the color of his contacts during his first stage. The more “artistic” name for it was primrose green, and it had competed against other high-sounding shades like crow-blue, jade-stone blue, and cloud-peak white.

With a string of peaceful questions, the tense atmosphere eased, and the livestream moved forward smoothly.

Until the staff suddenly tossed out a bombshell of a question—

“Many Starseekers are curious—what’s your Chinese name?”

Lai Yudong: “……”

Wh-what?

His Chinese name!?

On the surface, he maintained a calm expression, but inside he felt as if he’d been shelled with cannon fire. He urgently summoned the system, asking how to deal with it.

Lai Yudong: [Am I even allowed to say this?]

System: [Why not?]

Right…

It was normal for a foreigner to adopt a local name when living here, wasn’t it?

Once that clicked, Lai Yudong calmed down quickly. He smiled at the camera and spoke slowly, deliberately:

“My Chinese name is…”

He paused. Since his transmigration, he had never once spoken his real name. Over time, it had almost begun to feel unfamiliar.

“Lai Yudong.”

“Yu, as in ‘feathered,’ and Dong, as in ‘winter solstice.’”

The moment he said his true name, it felt as though he had finally formed a genuine bond with this world.

[Lai Yudong? That’s it?]

[Sounds so nice! I like it!]

[Baby seems so cultured]

[Me: Yu like Guan Yu, Dong like winter melon]

[So LYD Entertainment is an abbreviation of his name?]

[So from now on, can we call him Dong-Baby?]

The half-hour livestream finally came to an end.

It was an experience he didn’t care to recall—at the very least, his heart had ridden three roller coasters. He could already foresee certain clips spreading wildly online, maybe even going down in talent-show history.

But that was fine. People had to keep looking forward.

So what if he said “mai fu” outright on the official platform!

Looking on the bright side, the “shockingly outspoken” persona was now firmly established. Who knew—maybe he’d even go viral in an unconventional way.

Lai Yudong pressed the button at the elevator. Just as he thought today’s “excitement” was finally wrapping up, a flash of red passed in front of him, and a sneaky figure darted out from the stairwell.

“Miura, wait up!”

It was Li Xu, who looked like he had been lurking for quite a while. He grabbed hold of the bewildered blond boy. Meeting those puzzled dark eyes, he grew visibly flustered, stammering for ages without managing to get the words out.

“What is it?” Lai Yudong asked patiently.

Li Xu deliberately glanced toward the camera. Then, summoning his courage, he raised his voice loud enough for viewers on the other side of the screen to hear every word clearly:

“I want to, um… talk with you…? Somewhere without cameras, is that okay?”

Lai Yudong: “?”

What was this about?

Don’t tell him Li Xu lost his phone?

<< _ >>

The post Trainee Ch.57 first appeared on A Wandering Potato.