Chapter 42: Huaning Television Station (Part 2)
Upon hearing this news, the atmosphere on the 13th floor immediately shifted.
Tension still lingered, but it wasn’t the tension of a three-sided standoff. At this moment, everyone understood that clearing the game was now the most urgent matter.
In this world, apart from the elite assault teams, almost no one willingly enters the game. Even among these teams, not everyone is eager to participate. Most players, after experiencing the game even once, are content to use their skills outside it, approaching it with caution and trepidation, as the game is nearly a life-or-death trial.
Ling Changye noticed the expressions on their faces and chuckled. He had a relaxed and casual air as he spoke, as if chatting about family matters with old friends. “The Saint Game Guild worships the game so much, practically treating it as a divine entity. You all must be thrilled to enter, right?”
“…”
Most of the volunteers were entering the game for the first time, but they had already seen how bloody and terrifying it was through their rescue work. Hearing they were now caught up in the game, they were far more apprehensive than uninformed newcomers.
Ling Changye’s question seemed to ease the tension in the air a bit.
The bald man gritted his teeth and smirked. “Yeah, it’s delightful—another chance to sift out a bunch of stupid, weak, inferior humans. Of course, we’re happy.”
As he spoke, he glanced mockingly toward Xia Bai and the group of volunteers.
Those in lab coats and protective gear were clearly from the Administrative Bureau’s logistics rescue team. It was well-known that, apart from a few healing-oriented players, the Bureau’s rescue team mostly consisted of those without skills.
The volunteers remained silent.
In this game, there was no need for an explanation from the Bureau.
With the game locked in, the three groups settled into different corners of the 13th floor, each team discussing their plans.
The Saint Game Guild had a total of 15 members, including players from the guild and a few others who had come to join them.
The bald man was obviously their leader. One of his underlings anxiously asked, “Brother Qiang, what should we do?”
His face twisted with muscle, giving him a fierce, animal-like glare. “Why so nervous? As of now, we hold the advantage. Earlier, when Ling Changye told us to go to the education center, I refused because I wanted to test his abilities and see if he’s a real ace or just bluffing. The same rules apply in the game.”
Another guild player added, “The people behind Ling Changye don’t look like assault team members. Their strength isn’t enough to make us wary.”
“No,” the underling frowned, “didn’t you notice? They’re a pretty good-looking bunch.”
The two men paused, suddenly understanding his meaning. Having survived several games, they knew what he implied.
Games are often influenced by their location. Since they were locked into the game at the Provincial Television Station building, this game might very well revolve around what regularly happens here.
Hua Ning TV Station was fairly well-known, with popular dramas and even more famous variety shows that boasted both high ratings and strong reputations.
They had already scoped out the area. The lower floors housed mostly offices, while the main building had office spaces, large conference rooms, and numerous studios.
This meant they were likely going to shoot some kind of film, television drama, or participate in a variety show—activities where appearance might be an advantage.
The woman next to the bald man flicked her long black hair. “Am I not good-looking enough?”
The bald man chuckled, blood creeping into his grin. “Plenty of good-looking people out there. But how many actually make it as stars? The entertainment world is full of tricks. It takes skill and the right fate to succeed.”
In the corner opposite, by the window, Ling Changye said, “The game might be related to the entertainment industry. It’s likely we’ll be participating in some variety show, so we have an edge. Stay calm.”
They had a total of 19 people: three volunteer groups (five, five, and four members each), with two more volunteers injured and left in the ambulance. Including Yang Mei, they had 13 volunteers in total, plus Ling Changye’s group of six.
Out of everyone, Xia Bai might have been the only one who fully understood what Ling Changye meant. Because they had Yang Mei, who was known as the “Thousand Ghost Idol,” they would indeed have an advantage if the game revolved around the entertainment industry.
With a game linked to the entertainment industry, it certainly wouldn’t be a standard one. Something eerie and supernatural was bound to appear.
Hearing his words, the volunteers felt slightly more reassured.
Ling Changye continued, “But don’t let your guard down. The other two teams have several formidable players. The Saint Game Guild members are ruthless killers, and the Half Moon Guild couple are the president and his wife.”
Xia Bai had guessed these people weren’t ordinary. Otherwise, Ling Changye wouldn’t be here. Major conflicts among players were indeed managed by the Operations Division, but not by the assault teams. The situation was probably serious enough to bring in someone like him, who had just taken a week off to spend with his child.
He looked toward the Half Moon Guild on the other side of the room, who had ten members altogether.
They seemed calm and were quietly waiting for the game to start.
Xia Bai had seen a simple introduction of the Half Moon Guild during an online course from the Administrative Bureau. After becoming an assault team member, he accessed deeper information about them.
The Half Moon Guild was somewhat morally ambiguous, with a general inclination to support the game’s existence. They were mostly aligned with the Saint Game Guild but were less extreme. It wasn’t due to a kinder temperament; in fact, their methods were often so brutal that even the Saint Game Guild couldn’t match them at times.
The guild originated from a region between Huaguo and Mangguo, and the guild leader’s abilities remained mysterious. Bureau records merely noted that two players had spontaneously combusted in his presence.
He and his wife entered the games together and rarely met an equal. An assault team once teamed up with them but didn’t make it out, leaving questions about the cause.
As Xia Bai observed, the guild leader was carefully wiping his wife’s face with a sleeve, removing traces of blood and ash. The wife was a beautiful woman, albeit thin, with sunken eyes and signs of age—yet softened by time’s touch.
Just then, an announcement sounded: [Game Loading Complete. Special Map: Huaning Television Station is Now Online.]
The players, who had been sizing each other up and thinking things over, all stiffened.
Xia Bai had entered two games before, both on regular maps. This was his first time entering a special map.
Anyone who had attended the Administrative Bureau’s online classes or spent time lurking in player forums knew that regular maps typically had standard gameplay or an “Seek the Truth” objective, as players called it.
Special maps had no set gameplay style; anything could happen. They weren’t necessarily harder than regular maps—like a recent primary school map, where a group of kids just had to play a game and the winner passed. But special maps were highly unpredictable, making them unnerving, especially with so many people involved. Seeking the truth on a regular map was generally safer.
[Since you were in the main building of Hua Ning TV Station when the map launched, it must be fate. Welcome, players, to Hua Ning Television Station. You are lucky to have been selected for the station’s hit variety show, Idol 404. Idol 404 is a top-rated talent competition with high rewards. We wish you success on your journey to fame.]
Then, Xia Bai heard a voice he was familiar with: [Welcome, corpse-picker Xia Bai.]
Yang Mei removed her protective clothing and turned to Xia Bai, asking, “Hey, did I land in the perfect field or what?”
Many people from the Bureau turned to look at Yang Mei, clearly unaware of her background and visibly impressed.
At Xia Bai’s insistence, Yang Mei had refrained from wearing Lolita, qipao, or hanfu outfits recently, opting for relatively casual JK uniforms.
Her JK uniforms were mostly a combination of shirts and pleated mini skirts. Today, she wore knee-high socks and low-cut loafers.
Even the Operations Division members had to admit—she truly looked like an ideal girl group member, brimming with youthful charm and a subtle hint of alluring innocence, practically ready to debut.
If the situation had been different, a couple of the men would’ve already asked for her contact information.
Xia Bai didn’t want to answer her question or endure those glances, so he looked at Ling Changye.
Ling Changye’s gaze was directed at the floor. “Did you all hear that sound?”
At first, Xia Bai thought he was just ignoring everyone. But after a moment, he actually heard it—a sound that seemed to come from deep underground, gradually growing louder until it was clear in their ears.
“All trainees, please assemble in the basement studio! All trainees, please assemble in the basement studio!”
The players, not daring to disobey the game’s instructions, immediately took the elevator down.
They hadn’t known that there was a studio on the first basement level of Huaning TV Station’s main building. Perhaps it existed only within the game. As soon as the elevator doors opened, they could sense the stark contrast between this floor and the 13th floor.
It was autumn in Quanguang City, with crisp and refreshing air, and the weather was starting to feel dry. Perhaps because they were underground, the basement level felt damp and dark, like a seaside summer, with a hint of the salty ocean in the air.
The basement was spacious, but the ceiling wasn’t as high as the floors above, and under the dim lighting, it felt a bit oppressive, especially with a few expressionless staff members standing along the hallway.
After they stepped out of the elevator, the doors shut heavily behind them.
Xia Bai turned around and noticed that there were no elevator buttons on this floor, meaning they couldn’t take the elevator back up. It was a one-way trip down.
He wasn’t the only one to realize this, and the discovery intensified the sense of unease, as if they were trapped in this stifling basement.
The studio was easy to find. The basement only had four practice rooms and a large studio. Passing by the expressionless staff who watched them intently, they entered the largest studio.
At the front of the studio was a big stage, brightly illuminated. The area below the stage was much darker, with rows of red leather seats, and three people were already seated in the front row.
Judging from their silhouettes, there was a black-haired woman in a red dress, a short-haired man, and a woman with ear-length curly hair.
No one spoke. After the players entered, two of them tried to quietly sit down in the seats, but a whip appeared out of nowhere and lashed them, sending them flying. It was real—they were flung from their seats to the wall. Blood immediately began seeping from their bodies, their skin splitting to reveal white bone, which quickly turned black as they writhed on the floor, screaming in agony.
The woman in the red dress stood up, holding the blood-red whip in her hand. Her voice was sharp, as if forced from a tight throat. “Seeing your mentors and seniors, and you don’t even greet them? Is this your idea of etiquette?”
All the players looked at her whip with dread. The whip seemed to appear and vanish at will, impossibly long, with fresh flesh caught on the spiked tips, and a faint stench of dried blood lingering in the studio. Who knew how much blood had soaked into it?
“Then I’ll start with a lesson,” the woman in the red dress said, the corner of her red lips quirking up slightly. “I am your posture instructor. You may call me Teacher Liu, but before addressing me, you must bow. Bow to greet your seniors, bow to greet high-ranking trainees—this is the most basic etiquette in 404.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, we heard you.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, we heard you!”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, we heard you!”
Only when every player bowed and answered her loudly did she finally fall silent, satisfied.
The man next to her then slowly stood up. His face was solemn, with none of the liveliness typical of the living, his expression heavy and drooping at the corners of his mouth. “I am the producer of Idol 404.”
The woman with curly hair on his right then stood up. From her figure to her face, there wasn’t a single flaw, so perfect it was almost eerie. “I am your senior from the first season, and I’ll be your talent instructor this season.”
Xia Bai had never watched any talent competition shows. Back in high school, several girls in his class were fans of such shows and often discussed them, but he would just zone out at that time, thinking about the god of fortune at home.
However, he was able to deduce quite a bit about this talent competition just by looking at these three people who seemed to be judges.
The producer likely represented the sponsors or possibly the “popularity metrics” they mentioned.
Then there was a physical performance coach and a talent coach, indicating that this show valued both appearance and talent—both likely of equal importance.
The producer said, “You all know what kind of contracts you signed with your companies. Your only path is to debut with all your might; otherwise, the companies will just sell you off to repay the training fees. We have the authority to ‘handle’ you. This is a right the companies granted us for sending you here to participate in this show.”
They didn’t know exactly what was in their contracts with the company, but they understood this: if they didn’t train hard, the consequences would be severe, and the program team had the authority to “deal” with them.
“Now, let me announce the rules for the upcoming preliminary grading. The preliminary grading will be done as a live broadcast, with ratings given by our three judges and the online audience together. The online ratings are the best gauge of audience appeal, and of course, our program’s viewers are very professional. They’ll be rating you based on your looks and talent, and these scores will be added to our judges’ scores to determine your overall rating. This rating is crucial—it will decide your treatment and grouping in the upcoming rounds at 404.”
“Remember, popularity is paramount, and fans are god.”
As soon as the producer finished speaking, the walls of the studio lit up. Gigantic screens covered almost the entire wall in every direction, focusing on the stage like pairs of watchful eyes. As long as they looked up, they could see comments about them flashing across the screen.
【Is this year’s 404 starting?】
【I’ve been waiting for this.】
【Let’s see how this year’s trainees perform.】
The producer said, “Now, the preliminary grading officially begins. Everyone, please take your seats.”
Only then did the players hurry to sit down. Even the two players who had been beaten to a pulp were helped to their seats.
Yang Mei pulled Xia Bai to sit next to Ling Changye, squeezing into the back row.
“Trainees will come on stage when their names are called to perform,” the producer said as she flipped through the trainees’ files, giving them no time to prepare and speaking without even looking back. “First up, Liao Manni.”
A woman with a curvaceous figure elegantly walked onto the stage. Xia Bai recognized her as the woman who had been standing next to the bald man from the Saint Game Guild.
She was strikingly beautiful and had a confident stride, exuding self-assurance.
After stepping onto the stage, Liao Manni swept her long hair over her shoulder, revealing her fair collarbone. She clasped her hands in front of her body, bent forward, and bowed, saying, “Hello, esteemed judges, and hello, audience.”
Behind her was a large screen, displaying comments from the audience as they saw her.
【Hmm, she doesn’t look bad.】
【Wonder what talent she’ll show.】
【Skin’s a bit yellow, though.】
【Too much emotion in her gaze.】
【No way, her chest is sagging.】
Xia Bai noticed Yang Mei immediately look down at her own flat chest.
“…”
Liao Manni could see the comments on the large screen behind the audience and especially on the one directly facing her. Her face changed slightly when she read the comments.
【What’s with her poor facial control?】
【Is she unhappy with our comments?】
【I’ll be the first to give an F grade.】
Liao Manni’s facial muscles twitched slightly, barely noticeable, but with all the stage lights focused on her, even the slightest expression was visible.
The physical coach suddenly spoke up, “Didn’t you hear the audience say you lack facial control? Smile already!”
They weren’t sure about the other two judges, but this physical coach seemed the most terrifying to the players. The whip she kept at her side gave off a bloody smell, as if she would snap it down at any moment, exposing bone with one lash.
Liao Manni quickly forced a smile, but it looked strained and awkward, which only amplified under the lights.
【That smile is hideous.】
【What, are we forcing her to smile?】
【She looks like she’s crying. Did I come to watch people cry?】
The physical coach gripped her whip. “Are we the ones who forced you to participate in this show? This is a chance you begged for—now smile properly!”
Liao Manni’s smile grew even wider, but the wider it got, the more her nervousness showed.
“Can you even smile?” The coach slammed her whip on the ground with a loud crack, which was somehow even more nerve-wracking than if it had hit someone.
The producer pulled out her file, slapped it on the table, and glared at her, the dark look in his eyes as if he wanted to devour her. His dissatisfaction seemed almost tangible, ready to drip to the floor in a puddle.
The screens surrounding them started rolling with comments at an increasingly rapid pace, forming a dense, pulsating wall of disapproval. It felt like pairs of scrutinizing eyes flipping through each comment.
Liao Manni’s smile grew even larger, as if she had forgotten how to smile properly. Her mouth stretched wider and wider, almost showing all her teeth, and tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes.
It wasn’t just her who was nervous—the players below the stage felt it too, unconsciously stretching their mouths as well.
If even someone like Liao Manni, who seemed capable of debuting immediately, was struggling so much, how would they fare if it were them up there?
The tense faces and sharp breaths of those in the audience only increased Liao Manni’s anxiety. She felt like her whole body was buzzing, but her mind was clear enough to realize that things would only get worse if this continued. She couldn’t make herself smile anymore; she might just die here trying to force a smile.
With a trembling voice, she said, “I’m going to perform a jazz dance for the audience. I hope everyone will enjoy it.”
She didn’t give the physical coach a chance to respond, starting her performance the moment she finished speaking.
Her movements were stiff at first, but soon she found her rhythm, even someone like Xia Bai, who knew nothing about dance, could see she was skilled. Her body moved fluidly, executing one challenging move after another.
With no background music and dancing alone under the silent gaze of so many intimidating and unknown people, it was difficult to pull the audience in, but Xia Bai could feel her rhythm.
When she finished, she kept her eyes lowered, as though she didn’t want to look at the screens. The physical coach immediately scolded her, “What’s that attitude? Did your company not teach you eye contact with the audience on stage?”
Liao Manni took a deep breath, raised her head with a forced smile.
It seemed she really didn’t know how to smile anymore. The players all thought the same.
The physical coach’s face darkened, “You have the ugliest mouth I’ve ever seen. Go back to the dorm and take a good look in the mirror!”
There were six levels: ABCDEF, and Liao Manni ultimately received an E.
The audience rating was immediately displayed on the large screen, with 21 C’s, 160 D’s, 650 E’s, and 159 F’s.
The physical coach gave her an F, the talent coach gave an E, and the producer also gave an E.
The physical coach said, “You should be grateful this is just a preliminary round. If you get an E in a future evaluation…”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but just licked her lips.
Yang Mei, holding a small notebook and pen from who knows where, wrote a note and showed it to Ling Changye, asking, “Captain, how was her dancing?”
Ever since the two players were beaten, none of the seated players dared to speak. Yang Mei knew he couldn’t talk either, so he wrote.
Xia Bai saw Ling Changye write a response with messy, carelessly flowing handwriting, “Professional level; Liao Manni is likely a trained dancer.”
Yang Mei: “Wow, this 404 trainee evaluation is really strict, huh?”
Knowing the people around them were probably watching, Ling Changye wrote two possible explanations: “1. The evaluation is strict. 2. The direction is off.”
Seeing that Yang Mei was about to ask again, he preemptively wrote, “Keep watching.”
The producer called another name: “Jia Caihua.”
【Fake talent? Just from his name, you can tell he has no talent, haha!】
【With a tacky name like that, can he be an idol?】
【His name isn’t so bad, I think.】
Jia Caihua was a male player. He hadn’t even stood up yet when the screens around him displayed comments about him. Once he stood on stage, he realized just how clear they were, flooding towards him in this almost trapezoidal studio, along with the vicious, gloomy, and eerie gazes of the three judges.
“Smile, smile…” he reminded himself, but his words were picked up by the microphone, echoing throughout the studio.
【Hahaha!】
【Is he trying to play a clown character?】
“[Look at his legs shaking, hahaha!]”
The dance instructor cracked his whip on the floor, making him tremble even more. Maybe he picked up this reaction from Liao Manni, as he immediately jumped into his talent showcase, announcing, “Next, I’ll perform a song for everyone.”
But his voice was shaking, and when he started singing, the tremble became even more obvious. The whole song was filled with quivers, slides, and a cry-like tone.
There are two emotions that easily resonate with others: awkwardness and nervousness. He was entirely consumed by both, and the players watching grew tense with him, to the point that they couldn’t even tell what he was singing—it felt like an eternity.
Needless to say, the audience wasn’t getting any enjoyment from his performance.
Grade F.
When the producer announced the score, Jia Caihua noticed the cold, dead-eyed stare directed at him, making his heart skip a beat. He hurried off the stage, even forgetting to bow.
After Jia Caihua, three more players went up, each also receiving an F grade.
The number of complaints on the screen grew, filling with dissatisfaction. The atmosphere in the studio grew increasingly tense. Many of the players were clearly skilled, but for some reason, they were so nervous in this setting that they didn’t even dare to breathe loudly.
Sitting behind the three judges, they felt as though dark energy was radiating from the producer, his voice growing colder and almost chilling, seeping into their hearts.
“Next, Shi Danfeng.”
Xia Bai watched as the wife of the head of the Half Moon Group slowly stood up.
