13 Jinjiang Literature City 13

At eight o’clock the next morning, You Yun carried a basin to wash up and happened to see a girl applying makeup—slender eyebrows, a deep nose bridge, false eyelashes embodying the essence of a girl group look, and large waves cascading hair, each strand exquisitely styled.

So glamorous!

You Yun glanced at herself in the mirror, bare-faced. Makeup was out of the question; merely managing to wash her hair was already the greatest respect she could show to this disastrous class.

On the way to the cafeteria, she replayed yesterday’s debut stage in her mind and felt she had made a grave mistake. She had tried too hard to get eliminated, causing too many disruptions, forgetting this was not only a competition but also a show—one directed by Liu, who loved stirring up drama. Entertainment was paramount.

She was sure she’d be criticized after the broadcast.

No more reckless rebellion. From now on, she had to keep a low profile and develop quietly.

The theme song training was divided by classes, and You Yun was in Class C, along with her dormmates Xin Yi and Su Qianqian.

The training consisted of two sessions—dance and vocals—both on the first day, taught by rotating instructors. The second day was for self-practice according to personal needs, and on the third day, there would be assessments and the theme song recording. The schedule was tight.

The dance for the theme song “Look at Me” was youthful and energetic, full of lively rhythms.

You Yun had no talent for dancing, so she memorized the moves and positions, following closely behind the teacher.

She raised her hand—she raised hers; she turned her head—she followed; she spun around—she mirrored…

Almost collided.

You Yun gritted her teeth, pushing through. Once more, then faltering, fading, faltering again… how much longer could this go on?

Calculus wasn’t this hard!

She was just a bit player here for the appearance fee, so why endure such torment?

Just as she felt she might faint, the four-and-a-half-minute theme song finally ended.

Exhausted to the point of collapse, oxygen deprived in her brain, her eyes glazed over as she slumped to the floor, reverting to a lump of clay from the time of creation.

The song’s pace was fast, the choreography complex—twisting waists, swinging hips, spins, jumps—completing it was utterly exhausting.

As a minor actor without gigs, her most vigorous exercise was walking to the restroom. This combo routine was equivalent to half a month’s worth of activity. Those who knew she was on a talent show might think it was military training.

In her blue training suit, the girl sat slumped on the ground, strands of hair stuck to her face. Bare-faced, her skin was flawless, glowing like porcelain, instantly drawing attention.

“Nini, I envy your skin so much,” Su Qianqian said admiringly, touching her smooth, bouncy face. Comparing yourself to others can be infuriating.

“Thanks. I envy your stamina,” You Yun gasped, looking at the girl whose makeup was flawless, bangs untouched despite the dancing.

Su Qianqian laughed, “It’s okay if you can’t dance well. If all else fails, you can play the suona flute beside others.”

Xin Yi chuckled, “You’re too harsh.”

After a full day of adjustment, the dormmates had grown quite familiar, joking without reservation.

After two hours of dance training, just past ten, the instructor Qing Xi entered. The cheerful classroom instantly turned solemn. Everyone stood in line and greeted in unison, “Hello, Teacher Qing.”

Qing Xi nodded slightly and stood in front of them. “How’s the practice?”

The cameraman focused on her perfect profile.

Qing Xi debuted at twenty and was now thirty-one. Over eleven years, she was renowned for discipline, hailed by fans as the flawless idol who never made mistakes. Strong-willed and proud, her demands were naturally strict.

“So-so,” came a few scattered, unenthusiastic voices.

“Who practiced the dance again last night? Raise your hand,” Qing Xi asked sharply.

After tidying the dorm late at night, practicing the new choreography again would mean an all-nighter. The show didn’t require this, so not many should have raised their hands.

You Yun thought that, but almost everyone except her did.

You Yun was puzzled.

Compared to the others, she who came to class normally seemed unmotivated and lacking ambition.

This was what you call vicious competition.

Qing Xi’s gaze swept the room, finally resting on You Yun—the only one without a raised hand. She had a terrible impression from the debut stage: the weakest foundation yet no effort, the worst kind who just relied on looks.

“You,” Qing Xi pointed at her. “Come out.”

You Yun hesitated briefly, then stepped forward.

Qing Xi crossed her arms, glaring down at her. “Show me your dance.”

It felt like being called out by a teacher for not preparing.

Reluctantly, You Yun began.

There was no music, so she counted beats, set her stance, and after two measures, Qing Xi impatiently interrupted, “What is that posture? Even a chicken pecking on the ground dances better.”

…

That day she kept her hands in her pockets, too intimidated to respond.

“How do you think you danced?”

“Not well.”

She was honest—no dance foundation, merely imitating, stiff and lacking grace.

“You know it’s bad,” Qing Xi snorted. “Then what were you doing instead of practicing last night?”

“Sleeping.”

“You’re so carefree. Can you really sleep at midnight?”

“?”

What was she implying? Should she be waiting for alien signals at midnight?

Qing Xi was fierce, and the directors didn’t stop her—they wanted the drama to boost ratings. The more intense the quarrel, the better.

“I’ve seen plenty like you, always looking for shortcuts. Do you think forming a group is easy? Everyone else practices all night, why can’t you? Too precious, huh?”

You Yun: “…”

She didn’t even want to debut; she just wanted to avoid being a stagnant, stuck fish.

Frankly, she wasn’t the worst dancer. Class C’s average was poor; even if they had practiced, most couldn’t connect the moves. She could nearly flawlessly recall most steps, ranking above average. Qing Xi was clearly picking on her.

She had always excelled academically, top of her class in university, the model child in her parents’ eyes. This was the first public criticism she’d faced, making her inexplicably upset.

Just as she was about to retort, a casual laugh came from the doorway.

Qing Xi turned her head.

Zhao Zhiyu leaned against the doorframe in a thin black shirt, tall and relaxed, one hand in his pocket.

“Expecting a full dance after only two hours? Teacher Qing is strict indeed.”

Qing Xi frowned. Him again.

Was he addicted to opposing her?

“Is strictness not allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed. Teacher Qing is the industry’s workhorse—when she was a trainee, she didn’t sleep for three months. Such discipline and dedication make us juniors look pale.”

Qing Xi huffed arrogantly, “Naturally. I’ve always been serious about work. You young people are too restless. Not only have you practiced two hours in class, you should know the choreography by heart before the show.”

“Impressive,” Zhao Zhiyu smiled, looking at the USB drive in his hand. “But I think Teacher Qing forgot to bring the recorded demo.”

Qing Xi: “…”

“That was distributed a week ago. I wonder if the dedicated Teacher Qing has memorized it in that week?”

Due to confidentiality, all scores and videos before broadcast weren’t allowed online. Only one copy per artist existed on a USB—he held Qing Xi’s, indicating she hadn’t reviewed the choreography.

Caught off guard, Qing Xi’s expression shifted. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, just a reminder that you forgot to bring it.”

His tone was calm and polite, but his cold, condescending gaze was unmistakable.

A refined scoundrel.

The atmosphere grew awkward.

The trainees dared not breathe, while Qing Xi’s face darkened ominously.

“Wow, your class is so quiet,” Lin Shen chuckled dryly at the door, breaking the silence as he stepped in. “Isn’t it my turn to teach?”

Qing Xi glared coldly but said nothing.

Lin Shen smiled wider. “Three teachers for one class is excessive. Class A is eagerly waiting for Teacher Qing to come over.”

Qing Xi said nothing else, turned with a sour face, and left, shooting You Yun a glare that clearly said, “Just you wait.”

You Yun was speechless.

What did that have to do with her? She hadn’t said a word. Qing Xi should glare at Zhao Zhiyu instead! Always bullying the weak. Bet the weak can spit water back in your face.

After the rocky start, the lesson officially began.

Lin Shen was the lead dancer of the popular boy group Max, younger than most girls, and surprisingly adept at girl group choreography, soft and cute beyond belief.

His good nature made the girls loosen up. Mischievous ones like Su Qianqian dared to tease him: “Teacher Shen, can you teach that face-holding move again?”

Lin Shen looked at her. “Haven’t you learned it?”

Su Qianqian pretended ignorance. “Nope, really don’t know.”

Lin Shen smiled helplessly and cupped his face, swiftly tilting his head—the move nearly melted Su Qianqian: “Ahhh, Shen Shen is so cute! I want to…”

You Yun quickly covered her mouth.

Everyone burst into laughter.

Lin Shen blushed, then invoked Qing Xi: “Stop fooling around, or Teacher Qing will come scold you.”

That was more effective than any “Teacher’s coming” warning from school. The trainees immediately behaved, afraid to offend the fearsome Qing.

“Okay, let’s run through the whole thing again.”

You Yun was utterly exhausted after the morning; being a trainee was harder than rural labor. She rested briefly during a bathroom break.

Outside the training room, she found a stone bench, wiped it clean, and sat down. Sunlight filtered through sparse branches, bathing her face in warm light, soothing and comfortable.

Leaning back, drowsiness swept over her like a tide, and just as she was about to sleep, she heard faint rustling behind a tree.

She snapped awake.

What was that sound? Surely no snakes here.

She tiptoed around and saw a girl crouched, shoulders shaking as if quietly wiping tears.

Good, no snakes.

It was Ren Xue from Class A.

You Yun remembered her well—the star of the debut stage, whose rendition of “Under the Sea” had captivated many.

“Um…” You Yun moved closer, watching her trembling shoulders. Concerned, she asked, “Did Teacher Qing scold you too?”

Ren Xue looked up.

You Yun then saw her eyes swollen like walnuts. Awkward, she lowered her voice, “I got scolded too. It’s okay, don’t cry.”

Ren Xue wiped her tears, glancing warily behind her.

You Yun followed her gaze to the distant cameraman and guessed her worry. “It’s almost noon. Want to eat together?”

“No appetite.”

“Appetite is like water in a sponge—you just have to squeeze it out.”

…

Ren Xue desperately needed comfort, and since there was no cameraman near the cafeteria, she nodded quietly, “Okay.”

They left the training room together. You Yun asked, “What’s wrong? Too much pressure?”

Ren Xue bit her lip and nodded.

Her initial rating was an A, and teachers gave that for two reasons: either flawless overall ability, like the all-rounder Qi Yue, or exceptional skill in one area. Ren Xue was the latter—excellent singer but weak dancer.

Originally signed as a singer, her company collapsed after the owner was arrested for tax evasion. The staff scattered, leaving a shell company and a few unknowns.

This show was her only chance to shine, but competition was brutal. Tens of thousands entered the industry yearly. As a newcomer with no background and social anxiety, the odds were slim. Beauty and charm were essential, and she had neither.

Thinking this made her more anxious. She cried carefully, barely letting tears fall.

You Yun said nothing, knowing words wouldn’t help—just like her own anxiety before the arts exam, which others mistook for vanity because she was always top of her class.

No one truly understands another’s feelings; anxiety and pressure aren’t always bad.

They walked silently to the cafeteria, which offered a rich buffet—healthy dishes, all free.

You Yun got stir-fried noodles, two dishes, and double-skin milk pudding. Ren Xue only took a vegetable salad and a boiled egg.

You Yun was surprised. “That’s all? With so much training, won’t you faint from hunger?”

“I’m dieting.”

“You’re already very thin. No need.”

“My body isn’t fat, but my face holds extra weight. On camera, I look chubby, so I have to eat less.”

“Girl groups have it tough.” She shoveled a big bite of noodles in. She could give up being camera-ready, but not eating.

After finishing lunch, You Yun said, “I’m going back to the dorm to nap. You should head back to training.”

Ren Xue was stunned. They only had forty-eight hours of training, and after being scolded that morning, she didn’t expect You Yun to be so relaxed. “You can still nap?”

You Yun: “Yeah, if I don’t nap, my ‘S’ trait will erupt.”

Ren Xue: “?”

You Yun: “Misunderstand me not—it’s for sleep.”

Ren Xue: “…”

Since they were friends, Ren Xue encouraged her: “I know your foundation is weak, but don’t lose heart. I’m the same. With practice, it’ll get better. Success comes from effort.”

“Effort? I want to rest today.”

“…”

“Don’t be so gloomy. None of us are perfect. Think about your strengths.”

“Like a herniated disc?”

“…”

Forget it. Just go nap.

You Yun slept until two, then strolled back for vocal class.

The vocal room was about the same size as the dance room, but had a piano instead of mirrors.

“Look at Me,” as the girl group’s theme song, had a powerful melody, with a fast rap section making the lyrics complex.

Memorizing lyrics wasn’t difficult—her dialogue class was perfect score. The words were positive buzzwords like “dream,” “sweat,” “hope,” “effort,” plus a few nonsensical English phrases. Easier than reciting “Xiao Shi Tan Ji” in five minutes back in middle school.

The melody, however…

She was famously tone deaf.

And singing wasn’t like dancing—dancing a hundred times builds muscle memory; singing a hundred times could wreck your voice.

Vocals were Ren Xue’s forte; if her voice was kissed by angels, You Yun’s sounded like it had been claimed by the grim reaper.

Zhao Zhiyu didn’t expect such an explosive, inspirational song to sound so lifeless when sung by her.

He paused, then commented, “Pretty good. No technique, just emotion.”

You Yun: “…”

Thanks. You insult better than Teacher Qing.

“‘Look at me now’ repeats, but each phrase’s delivery differs. If uncertain, try singing the scales first.”

His pronunciation was precise, pure British accent turning “look at me” into a heartfelt line. He played a few piano notes to help her find the right pitch.

“Try again.”

The piano keys danced under his fingers, the accompaniment swelling.

“Loo loo look at me now
Tear open the stubborn, boring soul
Loo loo look at me now
Let our downfall begin”

The singing was wild and free.

Yet to You Yun’s ears… it was quite soporific.

Drowsily, she felt the sound drift away.

The music stopped abruptly. Zhao Zhiyu looked toward the back row: “You Yun!”

The called girl gave no response. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair in a bun, she propped her chin with one hand, nodded off, then resumed sleeping.

Xin Yi gently poked her. “Nini, wake up, you’re being called.”

You Yun: “…” zzZ

“…”

Sleeping soundly indeed.

Zhao Zhiyu pinched the bridge of his nose, stood, and approached. People parted.

Unaware, she still slept deeply. Wisps of hair framed her face, shaded by his shadow.

He stood for a few seconds, seeing only her nodding bun from this angle.

“Ears are sensitive,” a thought suddenly crossed his mind.

He paused, bent down, and lightly pinched her earlobe with his finger.

His touch was cool. You Yun jolted awake, a tiny electric shock coursing through her limbs. She nearly jumped up like an alert little fox.

You Yun: “?!”