Chapter 43: Huaining TV Station (Part 3)
Shi Danfeng wore a black shirt, the neckline revealing a thin neck where a drop of blood remained, staining the hollow of her gaunt throat.
> [Comments from viewers on the bullet screen:]
> – “At least her facial features are somewhat presentable.”
> – “Old and skinny.”
> – “Why is her hair so messy? Why is she so dirty? She has no respect for the stage!”
> – “There are wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Are you still thinking about debuting, lady?”
> – “This old woman is a no-go. I’m not into older people. Let me rate her an F right away—no thanks.”
The barrage of bullet comments and critiques flooded the screen, but Shi Danfeng remained unaffected. Standing on stage, she bowed politely, saying, “Greetings to the three judges.”
Then, she turned to look straight ahead—at the screen on the wall behind the seats where the comments flashed by. Smiling gently, she bowed again. “Greetings to all the audience members.”
From their seats below, the players could already feel the harshness of the comments on the screen—the malice, the venom. Observing the performances of the earlier contestants, it was clear that standing on that stage, facing these critiques directly, would be even harder to endure.
Not only did they have to bear the pressure of facing an audience whose judgment could determine life or death, but also their anger and personal attacks. When people feel fear, they often lose confidence, fall into self-doubt, and panic even more.
For instance, Liao Manni from the Saint Game Guild, who was the first to perform, gradually crumbled under the relentless barrage of harsh criticisms.
Shi Danfeng, however, showed no signs of nervousness at all. The stage lights were dazzling, exposing every detail—there was nowhere to hide. Yet, she maintained her gentle smile, her eyes warm, as she looked up at the screen and greeted the audience one by one.
She seemed like someone accustomed to being in the spotlight. No, even the most popular star of the moment would likely struggle to remain as composed as she was on this terrifying stage.
> [New comments on the bullet screen:]
> – “This is… interesting.”
> – “Her expression management is impressive!”
> – “It’s been a while since I’ve seen such an entertaining contestant. She’s piqued my interest.”
On the judges’ panel, the performance instructor, who usually scolded and threatened the contestants, looked up at her but didn’t utter a single word.
Noticing her silence, the talent coach asked, “Shi Danfeng, what talent will you perform for your initial stage? Do you need us to prepare any props for you?”
“Thank you, but no,” she replied. “I’ll be singing a song for everyone.”
The talent coach hesitated for a moment. “Ah, okay. Please begin.”
> [Comments from viewers on the bullet screen:]
> – “What? Just a song?”
> – “If I’m being honest, singing is the most boring talent.”
> – “Singing has the lowest threshold. Anyone who lacks talent can sing.”
This sentiment wasn’t entirely wrong. These players weren’t actual trainees or performing arts students. Most didn’t possess any exceptional talents. Of the four contestants before her, two had sung, and it seemed likely there would be more singers to follow.
Some players preparing to sing started feeling nervous.
Shi Danfeng, however, remained unshaken. She combed her fingers through her hair and began singing softly,
“The camellias at home are blooming, the bougainvilleas along the road are red, dear child, where are you now?”
She sang what sounded like a folk song. Her voice wasn’t particularly remarkable—slightly husky, and the song wasn’t technically demanding. Yet, for some reason, the more Xia Bai listened, the more captivated he became.
A hand waved in front of his dazed face. His eyes followed the long fingers before turning to see Ling Changye raising an eyebrow while holding a small notebook that read:
“Charm.”
Xia Bai immediately covered his ears with his hands.
Blocking most of the sound, he dared not look at Shi Danfeng. Ling Changye hadn’t clarified whether her “charm” was only in her voice. After a long while, when Xia Bai felt completely clear-headed, he finally looked up.
The bullet screen was already filled with viewers’ ratings. Glancing over, he saw many C’s and B’s.
Shi Danfeng stopped singing. Xia Bai lowered his hands just in time to hear the producer announce her score: C.
This was the highest score so far. Even with her skills, Shi Danfeng had only achieved a C.
The players below took a while to recover. By the time they did, Shi Danfeng had already returned to her seat, and the guild leader was smiling at her.
The producer didn’t pause, immediately calling up the next contestant: Ji Jianping from the Bureau of Game Management’s Operations Division.
Ji Jianping was a man in his thirties with average looks but a commanding presence. After walking onstage, he gave a less stiff smile and said directly, “I’ll perform a sword dance for everyone.”
His sword, likely his weapon, was wielded skillfully in his performance. Yet, he only received an F.
Next up was Wang Wei from Xia Bai’s support group. Among the four of them, her mindset was the weakest. It was her first time in the game, and her nervousness was evident. She said she would play the piano, and a staff member quickly brought one onto the stage. Although her performance was decent, she still scored an F.
Several other players followed, including Zhong Zicang and Zhang Runyue. All received F’s, even though some of their performances seemed passable.
The players didn’t speak, but they exchanged glances. Xia Bai noticed the Saint Game Guild casting a look toward their group, specifically at Ling Changye.
So far, aside from the numerous F’s, there had been only one E and one C—the former from the Saint Game Guild and the latter from the Half Moon Guild. The Game Management Bureau’s contestants had all received F’s.
Before the evaluations began, the producer had emphasized the importance of this round, and it was clear their team was at a significant disadvantage.
Yang Mei scribbled in his little notebook:
“Is the situation looking bad?”
Without waiting for a response, he pulled out his phone and opened the game app.
Most players’ phones were fitted with privacy screens, and his was no exception. However, he didn’t bother hiding it, leaving the phone flat on his lap.
When Xia Bai glanced over, he didn’t see him selecting a skill book. By the time he looked, Yang Mei’s skills had already been activated.
Five cards appeared on his phone and then slid into his hands. Laying them flat, Yang Mei glanced at Ling Changye and then at Xia Bai.
Yang Mei’s in-game identity was “The Thousand Ghost Charmer.” Xia Bai assumed his skills were similar to Shi Danfeng’s—charm-based—but not entirely so.
The five cards were laid out before them:
1. A playful wink with pink bubbles, labeled “Lover.”
2. Sitting obediently with a milk bottle, labeled “Son.”
3. Wearing an apron and mopping the floor, labeled “Mom.”
4. Angrily unbuckling a belt, labeled “Dad.”
5. Reaching out a hand to lead someone, labeled “Younger Brother.”
Xia Bai realized that Yang Mei’s skill involved selecting one of these identities, likely making ghosts perceive him as their chosen relationship.
In this round, the “Lover” card seemed the most advantageous.
Xia Bai didn’t know much about the entertainment industry, but he’d heard classmates mention fans like “career stans,” and the most common “girlfriend stans,” “wife stans,” and “boyfriend stans.” There were even “mom stans,” so choosing “Son” could also work.
No wonder Ling Changye had said they had an advantage—this truly was a significant edge.
Yang Mei blinked and nudged the identity cards toward Ling Changye, who remained unresponsive.
Yang Mei scribbled again in his notebook:
“Captain, should I use my skill now? Which identity should I choose?”
Ling Changye replied, “No. Dad.”
“…”
Xia Bai quickly understood why Yang Mei was consulting Ling Changye. Ling Changye’s exact skill range and usage were unclear, but it must involve skill replication.
Yang Mei wanted Ling Changye to copy and use his skill.
This gave Xia Bai an even deeper understanding of the advantage Ling Changye had mentioned.
Ling Changye wrote in his notebook again:
“Ghosts?”
Was he confirming whether the judges and audience were all ghosts?
Yang Mei’s skill clearly only targeted non-human entities. Yet, it seemed the entire group was enthralled by its implications.
While they were communicating, the producer suddenly called out, “Ling Changye.”
“The next trainee to perform on stage is Ling Changye.”
Almost all the players turned to look at Ling Changye. Yang Mei, feeling anxious, waved her phone again, displaying the skill she had been mulling over.
Before heading to the stage, Ling Changye shook his head lightly, took off his trench coat, and placed it on the chair. Leisurely, he walked toward the stage.
If one didn’t know he was the leader of the assault team, they might mistake him for an idle young master from a wealthy family. His aristocratic aura, combined with a casual demeanor and a warm, albeit somewhat artificial, smile, made him stand out.
> [Wow, this guy looks pretty good, and he doesn’t seem nervous.]
> [Am I the only one who thinks his smile looks fake?]
> [He looks like a kept man.]
> [What a show-off, performing on stage while wearing a jade ring.]
Ling Changye smiled and greeted, “Hello to the three judges and the audience. I’m Ling Changye, a trainee. Please take care of me.”
Unlike the other players who hastily began their performances, he deliberately allowed some time for the judges to react and for the audience to post comments in the livestream.
None of the judges found fault with him. One of the talent instructors asked, “What will you be performing for us? Do you need any props?”
“Yes, I’ll need a suona, please,” Ling Changye replied politely.
The request stunned everyone.
Many players had gradually realized they didn’t necessarily have to sing or dance like typical idol trainees. They could perform unique acts related to their skills. Members of Shengyou Guild and Half Moon Guild thought Ling Changye might demonstrate a skill to impress the crowd. No one expected him to ask for a suona.
Even without delving into schemes or ulterior motives, the suona didn’t seem to match Ling Changye at all!
The instrument was soon brought to the stage.
The quality of props on Idol 404, dubbed by the gaming community as Huining TV’s premier program, was top-notch. The brass suona gleamed under the stage lights, its texture pairing unexpectedly well with Ling Changye’s deep blue jade ring. Suddenly, the suona lost its usual unruly image and took on a refined, classical charm.
Placing the reed into his mouth, Ling Changye lowered his gaze and began to play.
Within seconds, Xia Bai’s eyes lit up. Xia Bai, an avid attendee of funerals in Minshi Village and frequent visitor to mortuaries, had grown familiar with funeral music.
Ling Changye was playing a funeral dirge, a piece Xia Bai recognized: an adapted version of Funeral Song.
When paired with the suona, an instrument born from the vast and rugged northern lands, the melody exuded a unique blend of melancholy and solemnity.
This rendition of Funeral Song transitioned to a major key at its climax. It began with low, sorrowful murmurs, progressed to uncontrollable weeping, and finally crescendoed into a poignant, determined lamentation.
Ling Changye wasn’t just playing a tune—he was portraying the story of someone’s death.
His firm fingers held the brass suona, his relaxed lips moving rhythmically. His eyes fixed on a distant point, as though bidding someone farewell.
The mournful notes seemed to carry the whispers of spirits crying softly. When the melody took a sudden turn, it felt as though the ghosts were glancing back in realization.
Unknowingly, the barrage of comments on the big screens began to dwindle. Amid the sparse remarks, a few scores appeared—several Bs and Cs, and even one A.
Turning back to the stage, Xia Bai wondered: Was Ling Changye using raw emotion?
Or perhaps his intellect?
Ling Changye might have suspected that the audience was primarily composed of ghosts. His bold choice of performance seemed to test that theory.
Each ghost in the crowd had experienced death. Ling Changye’s dirge might have rekindled memories of funerals that lacked a proper send-off, offering solace at this moment.
If the audience really were ghosts, his performance would likely earn him a high score.
Indeed, over 60% of the online viewers rated him C or higher. Combined with the judges’ evaluations, Ling Changye received a final grade of C—the highest thus far.
Ling Changye didn’t linger. He quickly reverted to his carefree demeanor, smiled faintly, and bowed. “Thank you, everyone.”
Returning to his seat amidst the players’ stares, Ling Changye showed no reaction, as calm as when he first went up.
His performance seemed to open a door for others. Players who followed began leaning into similar approaches.
The first to perform after him was a female player from the Administrative Bureau’s Action Department. She sang Farewell Beyond the Pavilion with a sorrowful voice and expression, earning an E.
Next, a male player from the Half Moon Guild performed a sacrificial dance, his movements a blend of grace and power, conveying devotion and faith. He also received an E.
As imitations increased, the impact began to wane. Subsequent performers started receiving F grades, frustrating the audience.
> [Are you kidding us?]
> [We came for entertainment, not to watch a bunch of mourners!]
> [Do you think we can’t tell this is copying?]
Even the judges grew displeased.
The talent instructor, smiling eerily, said, “Do you all lack original ideas? Can’t you create something of your own?”
The posture instructor added sharply, “Have you forgotten how to smile?”
It was during this tense moment that Yang Mei’s name was called.
When the producer announced “Yang Mei,” the already quiet players’ seating area seemed to pause as if even the sound of breathing had stopped for a second. Then, a low “What the—?” burst out from a bald man who was debating the ratings of three clubs.
The players started searching for Yang Mei.
The person next to Xia Bai peeled off a thin mask from his face, revealing his real features. Since this talent show had a dedicated physical instructor and placed such heavy emphasis on appearance, showing his real face on stage was a must—lest he be cursed endlessly.
In front of them, Zhong Zicang, Zhang Runyue, and Wang Wei turned their heads blankly in the direction of everyone’s gaze.
Zhong Zicang, a player from the Game Bureau, naturally knew who Yang Mei was: the number one player on the leaderboard, known as [Ten Thousand Ghosts’ Obsession]. When he realized that the cheerful, clumsy companion who had been tagging along with them these past few days was Yang Mei, he was utterly dumbfounded.
Members of the Operations Division also turned to look, their shock even more pronounced. Someone had just been asking “her” for contact information, hadn’t they?
After removing his disguise, Yang Mei pointed at his “Lover’s Card” on his identity badge with a quick gesture directed at Ling Changye.
Xia Bai noticed that when Yang Mei officially activated his ability, Ling Changye had been watching the entire time. However, Ling Changye didn’t seem particularly focused; his eyes glimmered faintly with a blue light, sweeping across Yang Mei like a scanning device.
The Lover’s Card disappeared from Yang Mei’s hand. Putting away his phone, he jogged onto the stage, bowed deeply, and his long hair fell forward with the motion. “Can’t hide anymore! Sorry I’m late. Don’t be mad, okay?”
[Holy crap, is this my first love?]
[Are you gay?]
[Could this be the so-called ‘first love face’? I feel like I just saw my girlfriend.]
[Pfft. That’s a promiscuous face if I’ve ever seen one. He’s definitely the cheating type—more than once, too.]
[Ahhh, so sweet, so charming!]
Many players stared blankly at the sudden shift in tone of the comments.
They didn’t get it. Yang Mei, the well-known leaderboard champion, was undoubtedly good-looking, but how did the atmosphere change so drastically? If it was just about looks, wasn’t Liao Manni equally stunning? Did clumsiness somehow have its own charm?
A few players looked as if they’d swallowed a bitter pill. Someone muttered under their breath, “How are we supposed to compete with this?”
Yang Mei spoke up, “But I don’t have any special talents. How about I perform a bunny dance for everyone?”
He started hopping on stage, singing, “Little bunny, white and white, hopping and skipping, oh so bright…”
All the players: “…”
[OMG! He’s so cute!]
[Ahhh, I’m getting a nosebleed!]
[I declare him my favorite trainee for the next two years!]
[Debut already, my darling. An A for you!]
Players struggling to appreciate the bunny dance: “…”
Silence fell over the hall.
What on earth was so captivating about the bunny dance that it could enthrall such a bizarre crowd?
Yang Mei received the first and only B grade of the initial evaluation and also managed to elicit the first smile of the night from the producer—albeit a terrifying one. “Yang Mei is a natural idol. This stage was made for you.”
Delighted, he jogged back amidst some people’s confusion and others’ gritted teeth. “I told you I was in my element.”
The players who followed Yang Mei onto the stage started copying his bunny dance.
Before this, Ling Changye had played a mournful tune for the audience on a flute. The first two imitators who followed Yang Mei’s lead achieved decent results. One of them, the first player to perform after Yang Mei, clumsily tried the bunny dance, feeling lucky yet inexplicably uneasy.
[He’s clearly in his thirties—how can he still pretend to be cute? Disgusting!]
[What nonsense. You think this half-hearted move is enough for us?]
[Get off the stage!]
F grade.
The player came off the stage in tears.
The scathing remarks from the audience likely added to his frustration.
After Yang Mei’s performance, the studio returned to a tense silence. Contestants stepping onto the stage faced not only the three terrifying judges but also the audience’s malicious comments and the looming threat of unknown punishments. The pressure kept mounting.
A brief moment of levity came when the bald man from the Saint Game Guild stepped onto the stage.
The bald man, Liu Qiang, was a veteran player from the guild. His performance was a Sichuan opera face-changing act using the classic “face-pulling” technique. With each pull, his face transformed into a different, blood-soaked human face, each expressing a distinct emotion, vividly showcasing joy, anger, sorrow, and fear against a backdrop of terror.
Using a skill, Xia Bai identified the bald man’s in-game identity: [The Thousand-Faced Man], ranked among the top thirty.
Liu Qiang received a D grade.
Subsequent players began using their abilities to craft unique performances, vying for the audience’s attention.
By the time it was Xia Bai’s turn, only two people were left waiting to perform.
Thanks to Yang Mei’s companionship over the past few days, Xia Bai had grown used to being under scrutiny. Stepping onto the stage, he felt surprisingly calm in the face of the audience’s gaze and the judges’ evaluation.
[This one looks so dazed. Is he stupid?]
[His features are fine, I guess.]
[Fine? His eyes look off. Could he be blind?]
The physical instructor frowned. “Can’t you smile? What about facial expression management?”
“This is my persona,” Xia Bai replied. “A dazed little cutie.”
“…”
[This is the first time I’ve seen someone so brazenly declaring their persona.]
[I’m allergic to stupidity.]
[He’s just using this as an excuse for not knowing how to smile, right?]
Momentarily at a loss for words, the talent instructor asked perfunctorily, “What’s your talent? Do you need any props?”
“Yes,” Xia Bai replied. “Can you provide me with a cadaver?”
“…”
As expected of Huaning TV’s premium ghostly program, they really provided him with a cadaver.
Xia Bai confirmed, “Is this a proper cadaver? I’m going to teach an anatomy lesson, and only properly donated cadavers are acceptable.”
“…”
The staff produced the donation contract for him to verify. Only then did Xia Bai begin.
He proceeded to give a serious anatomy lecture, drawing on his medical knowledge from Heping Medical College. “There are many medical dissection documentaries and educational videos…”
He was about to say they were meant for human audiences, but Xia Bai figured ghosts deserved to see them too. Some might have donated their bodies and should know what happened to them afterward. He saw this as a chance to fill the gaps in educational outreach.
However, openly differentiating between humans and ghosts might hurt some feelings.
Xia Bai decided to keep quiet, letting his actions speak for themselves. With utmost sincerity, he demonstrated a dissection lesson representative of Heping Medical College students’ standards.
[What?]
[What the—??]
[Stop it already!]
[You’re wasting resources!]
[I’m so angry! So angry!]
The comments exploded. The four large screens couldn’t display them all, as messages overlapped and covered each other. It felt as though countless ghosts had flooded in, begging Xia Bai to stop.
Unaware of the chaos, Xia Bai looked up to find 90,000 viewers had given him an F.
“…”
He remembered that the first performer, Liao Manni, had only had about a thousand viewers rate her.
And the number of viewers rating him was still climbing. In the end, over 100,000 viewers rated Xia Bai, overwhelmingly giving him an F.
Physical instructor: F.
Talent instructor: F.
Xia Bai: “…”
Only the producer gave him an A, the only one awarded that night. But it didn’t change the outcome. Xia Bai’s final evaluation was an unequivocal high-rank F.
Filled with good intentions, Xia Bai was bewildered and a little heartbroken.
