Translator: Pal.vi
Chapter 44: Huaining TV Station (Part 4)
Xia Bai returned with a blank expression.
Yang Mei leaned over to comfort him, “I liked your performance the most.”
The producer, overhearing, turned his stern gaze toward them. When he noticed that the speakers were—the only trainee he had rated an A and the one with the highest overall ranking, he simply turned back without comment.
Xia Bai’s sadness was fleeting. His emotions were always subdued, and by the time he returned, they had dissipated entirely. He nodded at Yang Mei and softly replied, “I think my performance had its merits.”
Yang Mei nodded enthusiastically. “That’s exactly what drew me to you back then.”
Ling Changye: “…”
The remaining two players soon finished their performances.
One was a volunteer. Unsurprisingly, his unremarkable violin performance earned him an F.
The other was the president of the Half Moon Guild, You Muhan. Unexpectedly, he didn’t use any special skills and performed a ritualistic dance that seemed to originate from a foreign culture. He also received an F.
A total of 44 players took turns performing non-stop. Under intense pressure, they continued for nearly three hours. By now, it was well past 1 a.m. in the game world. Everyone was utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically, yet too tense to relax.
The three judges sat at the front, discussing something. Since they remained seated, none of the players dared to leave.
About twenty minutes later, the three judges stood up. The producer held a list and announced, “Based on the evaluations from the initial stage, we’ve divided you into three categories.”
He said “categories,” not “groups.”
He began reading from the list:
“Top-tier trainees: Yang Mei, Ling Changye, Shi Danfeng, Liu Qiang, Liao Manni, Tang Ying, and Feng Sheng. A total of seven trainees.”
These seven were all trainees who hadn’t received an F.
“Mid-tier trainees: You Muhan, Wang Qiu, Sun Lijie… A total of thirteen trainees.”
These thirteen were rated F initially but showed potential based on audience feedback. Additionally, they shared a common trait: they all had above-average looks.
“Low-tier trainees: Xia Bai, Zhong Zicang, Zhang Runyue… A total of twenty-four trainees.”
As for these twenty-four, their designation as “low-tier” spoke for itself.
The producer continued, “Top-tier trainees will automatically form the Top Group, mid-tier trainees the Mid Group, and low-tier trainees the Low Group.”
He elaborated, “From now on, all activities and privileges in Area 404 will be based on your tier. However, tiers are not fixed; only the groupings are. If you’re low-tier this week, don’t despair. Strive to rise to the higher tiers through effort.”
He then explained the competition rules:
“In the next four weeks, there will be weekly assessments and competitions: two individual performances and two group battles.
“In the individual assessments, trainee tiers will be further refined. The first assessment is this Sunday. Any trainee receiving an F will be eliminated. In the second assessment, those rated E or below will be eliminated. Top-tier trainees will have one opportunity to redo their performance.”
“For the group battles, also known as Tier Competitions, the group with the lowest score will eliminate the bottom 30% of its members, with a minimum of two trainees eliminated. The losing group will also become the new Low Group. The group in the middle will eliminate the bottom 10% of its members, with at least one elimination. Only the top-performing group will avoid elimination and become the new Top Group.”
The players were stunned by these rules.
Initially divided into three factions—the Regulatory Bureau, the Sacred Games Guild, and the Half Moon Guild—they were now reassigned into three mixed groups, forced to compete against each other for survival.
Low-tier players felt particularly hopeless. They quickly realized that nearly all the top-tier trainees possessed special skills, and many strong players were in the mid-tier, including the Half Moon Guild president.
They stood little chance against the top-tier group and would struggle even against the mid-tier group. With their group facing the highest elimination rates, how could they possibly survive, especially with individual assessments requiring at least an E rating?
The producer asked, “Any questions about the groupings or the competition?”
A low-tier trainee raised their hand. “Excuse me, producer, if I score a C in the individual assessment, what will my status be?”
Based on the rankings from the initial stage, this would make them a top-tier trainee.
The producer replied, “Individual assessments affect personal rankings but not group rankings. If your group is in the Low Group, you’ll be a C-level trainee in the Low Group. If your group is in the Top Group, you’ll be a C-level trainee in the Top Group. Starting from the next competition, trainees will be strictly categorized into A, B, C, D, and E tiers.”
In other words, trainees were bound to their groups.
Even the lowest-ranking trainee in a top-performing group could avoid elimination during group battles simply by being in the winning group.
A mid-tier trainee raised their hand. “If we’re eliminated… does that mean we leave the Area 404 program?”
The uncertainty in their voice suggested even they found it hard to believe.
This was a question all players cared about—essentially, the nature of player penalties. Everyone looked to the three judges for answers.
The judges smiled. Their smiles were identical: cheerful yet unnerving. The producer responded cryptically, “No. Sentiment cannot discard the unsentimental. Why would you leave?”
What did that even mean?
Without giving them further opportunity to ask questions, the producer continued, “You might feel that the evaluation criteria were unclear. With audience involvement, the initial stage wasn’t entirely precise. Let me reiterate the key points:
“To debut as an idol, the first requirement is appearance, and the second is talent. These two foundations will be crucial throughout the competition. Once these are established, factors like traffic and fan engagement will be added to the evaluation criteria in later stages.”
He concluded, “I trust you now understand where your efforts should be directed.”
While they understood the direction, questions remained. Was effort enough?
The producer said, “Let me introduce the program staff.”
Pointing to his right, he said, “This is our posture coach, responsible for the ‘appearance’ aspect. This includes expression management, trainee etiquette, and related areas. Behind her is her team: makeup artists, stylists, beauticians, and nutritionists.”
Pointing to his left, he added, “This is our talent coach, a seasoned idol. She leads the team addressing the ‘talent’ aspect. Any questions about your skills can be directed to them.”
Finally, he said, “I am the producer of Area 404. Behind me is my team, responsible for monitoring your popularity, audience engagement, and fan data, as well as managing your daily lives.”
Just as the players thought the night was finally over, the producer added, “One last task for tonight: each group must elect a leader to manage internal affairs. Starting with the Top Group.”
A bald player immediately raised his hand. “Producer, I nominate myself as leader.”
“Disagree,” said Ling Changye and Shi Danfeng simultaneously.
The bald player sneered, “Then I won’t agree if either of you tries to be leader!”
Snap!
“Ah!”
Before he could finish, the posture coach’s whip lashed out, striking his arm and exposing a sliver of bone.
“Did I not warn you? Is that how you speak to high-ranking trainees?” she snapped, her voice shrill. “Next time, the whip will land on your face. Understood?”
The bald player, drenched in sweat, realized the whip rendered him defenseless, even against his protective gear.
The others, witnessing this, didn’t dare breathe too loudly. They now fully understood the hierarchy between trainees and judges.
Top-tier trainees glanced at Yang Mei.
Yang Mei hesitated. “Huh? Do you want me as leader? But I don’t even understand the rules yet.”
“…”
Yang Mei suggested, “I propose Ling Changye as leader. How about that?”
Blood from the bald man had already pooled on the floor; who dared to say no?
As soon as Yang Mei finished speaking, the producer didn’t wait for anyone else’s opinion and directly said, “The captain of the upper group is Ling Changye. What about the middle group?”
The middle group was made up entirely of F-rank players, unlike the upper group, which had distinctions between ranks. However, this group had You Muhan, the president of the Half-Moon Guild, who was the first name the producer called for the middle group. Thus, You Muhan became the captain of the middle group.
As for the lower group, it was simpler. Among their members, the volunteers had the greatest advantage, so their student council president, Zhong Zicang, became their captain.
After the captains were selected, they could finally return to rest.
The dormitories were located on the second basement floor. To reach them, they descended through a narrow staircase, finding the area below even more damp and dark than above.
The trainees in the upper group were assigned single rooms, the middle group shared double rooms, and the lower group was crammed into six-person rooms.
While assigning rooms, there was another round of disputes. The lower group only had four rooms, but there were nine female players and fifteen male players. Then there was the issue of mixed-gender accommodation.
The upper and middle groups didn’t face such problems. The middle group had 13 people and 7 rooms, which left one room for a single occupant. Shi Danfeng invited You Muhan to stay in his room, which wasn’t an issue since they were married. However, some people still displayed lewd expressions.
Yang Mei gazed longingly at Xia Bai, who quickly turned his head away, pretending not to see.
Eventually, the middle group gave up one double room for three female players from the lower group.
At this point, there was still no strong sense of rivalry between the groups. Since each group had members from their own Guilds, they even helped each other out.
By the time they finally lay down in bed, it was already past three in the morning.
The lower group trainees not only had to squeeze six people into a single room, but the rooms were also incredibly small. They resembled hard-sleeper compartments on a train: narrow rooms with bunk beds on either side, each with upper, middle, and lower bunks. The beds were just as cramped, and the frames, already rusty, swayed precariously. If one person turned over, three people would feel the bed shake.
The bedding seemed like it had been there for ages, used by countless others. It was damp and filthy, exuding a musty odor. When lifted, it felt heavy with moisture.
A cheap, transparent bulb on the mold-covered ceiling emitted a faint, flickering light.
There was no balcony or private bathroom, only a shared restroom outside, where they had to queue.
“What the hell is this!” one trainee muttered irritably, kicking the bed frame and knocking off some green paint flakes.
The six of them in this room had all been scolded and frightened on stage, severely demoralized. After hearing a series of rules that worked against them and experiencing the evident gap in ranks among trainees, the sight of this dark, damp, and cramped room was enough to break their spirits.
“This place is fit for rats, isn’t it? Well, we’re just rats! Hunted by everyone and unfit to be seen!”
Zhong Zicang said, “Don’t think like that. If we work hard, we can turn things around.”
“How? They have so many skilled players. What, are we supposed to rely on hard practice to improve our singing and dancing?”
“President, didn’t you say on our way to Quanguang City that you’d take us all back to school?”
Zhong Zicang fell silent.
The boy immediately regretted his words. They all knew that being dragged into the game was hardest on Zhong Zicang. They were just about to leave Quanguang City and return to school—who could’ve expected to be caught up in this?
The boy in the top bunk by the door spoke coldly, “What’s the point of saying that? We chose to come to the TV station ourselves; we can’t blame the president.”
He glanced at Zhong Zicang and added, “Sorry, President Zhong. I was out of line earlier…”
“It’s okay,” Zhong Zicang replied with a faint smile. Under the dim light, his face behind his glasses looked pale. He said, “Even if we can’t surpass the upper group, we might still surpass the middle group. They’re also F-rank. If we work hard, we can outperform them. Then, we can move into spacious double rooms and reduce the elimination of teammates.”
“But the middle group has some skilled players,” the boy said, still lacking confidence.
Zhong Zicang countered, “They’re skilled, yet they’re still F-rank. Captain Ling reached C-rank without using any skills. This competition isn’t just about skills. If we focus on creating good performances, we’ll achieve good results. Remember, C-rank players won’t even be eliminated in the second round of solo performances.”
His words comforted the boys in the room.
The trainees in this room were all volunteers from Heping Medical College. Xia Bai, lying on the middle bunk opposite the door, hadn’t spoken a word. He hugged his family genealogy book, silently listening to the conversation.
Zhong Zicang said, “Don’t overthink it. If you still have energy, start brainstorming ideas for your solo performance. Tomorrow, we can gather thoughts and see if we can improve them.”
After calming the others down, Zhong Zicang climbed into bed. While ascending to the top bunk, he patted Xia Bai’s ankle and said, “Xia Bai, your performance today was meaningful.”
Xia Bai replied with a simple “Mm,” understanding that Zhong Zicang was worried about him feeling depressed after being scolded by so many spectators. “I think so too. Thank you, Senior.”
Zhong Zicang was the last to settle in. Their dormitory finally grew quiet as everyone lay in bed, reflecting on their uncertain tomorrows, whether in silence or sorrow.
The other lower group dormitories, as well as the middle group dorms, were in similar states—everyone crushed under pressure and feeling hopeless.
In the fourth dormitory of the upper group, Liao Manni slithered onto Baldy’s soft, wide bed like a snake. She leaned close and exhaled by his ear, her tone seductive. “Did you miss me, Strong Brother?”
Baldy rolled over, pinning her beneath him. With urgency in his voice, he said, “I started missing you the moment you began dancing on stage. Come, soothe my pain.”
In the third dormitory of the upper group, You Muhan and Shi Danfeng had finished washing up. You Muhan had prepared a floor mat by the bed and smiled at Shi Danfeng before lying down. “Ah Feng, goodnight.”
Shi Danfeng also smiled at him. Her thin face, marked by wrinkles that seemed to radiate a gentle warmth, made her look aged but kind. “Goodnight,” she replied.
Then, she reached out her hand downward, and You Muhan simultaneously extended his hand upward. Their fingers intertwined in an intimate yet entirely platonic gesture.
“We’ll make it out of here, won’t we?”
“Yes, let’s head out and continue looking for Yueyue.”
In the second room of the top-tier group, Ling Changye was already asleep.
In the first room of the top-tier group, Yang Mei was still agonizing over how to phrase his words to get Xia Bai to agree to room with him.
That night, each room harbored different emotions, just like different lives.
“Ding-a-ling-ling!—”
Xia Bai felt as though he had just fallen asleep when the bell’s shrill sound woke him up.
Half-asleep, he vaguely heard someone curse, “It’s only five in the damn morning!”
At 5 a.m., the bell rang, calling them to prepare for their first week’s solo performance.
Though the trainees grumbled and cursed, none stayed in bed. They all understood that the solo assessment was a matter of survival. Not a single one of them dared slack off. In fact, some had even set alarms for 5 a.m. themselves.
The rooms of the top-tier trainees were closest to the stairs. When Xia Bai got there, he saw Ling Changye and Yang Mei stepping out of their rooms simultaneously.
“Morning,” Ling Changye greeted, adding, “Yesterday’s performance was good.”
Xia Bai: “…”
Noticing Xia Bai’s stunned and awkward expression, Ling Changye said, “I mean it. You were testing the waters, weren’t you? And you succeeded.”
Xia Bai looked up, his almond-shaped eyes glowing as they fixated on Ling Changye. “You knew?”
Ling Changye replied, “When you were performing, many viewers were telling you to stop. I even saw a comment saying, ‘What a waste of resources.’”
Xia Bai stared at him for a few more seconds but said nothing.
Yang Mei, utterly confused, asked, “What are you two talking about? Testing what?”
It felt like they were speaking in an entirely different language.
Ling Changye said, “Ghosts all long for a home.”
And he was right. Xia Bai’s performance the previous night had both an educational purpose and an experimental aspect. Folklore abounds with tales of possessions, where a ghost frightens away or destroys a person’s soul to steal their body and live among the living.
Xia Bai’s grandfather had told him similar stories about corpse walkers. They had to constantly guard their protective spirits, ensuring they weren’t “occupied” by wandering ghosts.
Many ghosts covet intact corpses. Ling Changye used a vivid metaphor: ghosts that have wandered as spirits for ages yearn for a “home” where they can relive the physical experiences they’ve long missed.
To them, a corpse is like a house to humans—perhaps even with the added allure of a car and emotional connections. It represents their deepest desire.
If this were true, crafting performances based on such desires could rival, if not surpass, ordinary performances meant solely to entertain ghostly audiences.
Still puzzled, Yang Mei asked, “What does this mean? Are we going to perform some kind of haunted house show? But in a game, I can only pick one identity card, and even with the captain’s duplication ability, we’d only have two ghost identities.”
Ling Changye shot back, “With your level of intelligence, that’s indeed a tough question. Just let it go.”
“…”
Outside the practice room on the basement level, new signs had been posted. The spaces were now divided into [Top-tier Group], [Mid-tier Group], [Lower-tier Group], and a [Public Practice Room].
[All trainees, please report to the studio for the morning meeting.]
The studio had undergone a makeover. The seating was brand new, but there were only twenty chairs. The first row featured seven red single sofas, while the second row had thirteen purple chairs. Clearly, the red sofas were for top-tier trainees, and the purple chairs were for mid-tier trainees. Lower-tier trainees were left standing.
This program never missed a chance to remind trainees of their rank disparity.
On stage, three judges were already seated.
“Please take your seats,” the producer announced.
Watching the top-tier and mid-tier trainees sit while lower-tier trainees stood, it was hard not to feel the sting of disparity. Especially after spending the night on damp, cramped, and hard iron bunk beds.
Even the mid-tier trainees, cramped on stiff chairs, couldn’t help but envy the top-tier trainees lounging on their soft, spacious sofas.
By the second day, the cracks in their sense of balance were already forming.
The producer began, “Today is Monday, so let’s discuss this week’s tasks. As mentioned briefly last night, this Sunday we will hold the solo assessment performances.”
“Like the initial stage, the solo assessments will be broadcast live online. This is the first real competition, so the audience will be larger, and our scoring will be stricter and more standardized. Let me now reveal the scoring criteria.”
“The judges and audience will score each trainee’s appearance and talent, with appearance accounting for 60% of the score and talent for 40%. Additionally, audience scores will contribute 90% of the final score, while judges’ scores will account for 10%.”
Upon hearing that appearance carried 20% more weight than talent, the players were shocked. Some were thrilled, while others despaired.
The physical instructor seemed to read their minds. Her sharp voice cut through the air: “What’s wrong? Isn’t this just reality?”
Indeed, it was. A harsh and satirical reality.
Even her laughter was sharp. “And don’t get too excited just yet. Few of you even meet the basic standard of attractiveness. I’ll be in my office on the third basement floor. If you have any questions about aesthetics, feel free to consult me.”
“Also, a reminder: practice managing your expressions at all times. Avoid looking startled or upset. This is a crucial part of appearance, and audiences don’t like sour faces. Learn from your exceptional senior.”
The trainees immediately looked at the talent instructor. Despite being informed that talent only accounted for 40%, she maintained a perfectly cheerful, professional smile. It was so devoid of personal emotion that it sent chills down their spines.
Several trainees instinctively forced their lips into smiles, mimicking their senior from the night before.
The talent instructor said, “I’ll also be in the office on the third basement floor. Feel free to come to me with any questions about your performances.”
“Exactly,” the producer continued. “This week, you’ll practice freely in your designated rooms. The judges won’t assign you tasks but will be available in their offices for guidance when needed.”
“Now, go practice. I look forward to your performances this weekend. Remember, anyone rated F in this evaluation will be eliminated. Push yourselves to deliver groundbreaking performances.”
The trainees returned to their respective practice rooms.
The pressure for this solo round was immense. Based on the last evaluation, 37 participants were set to be eliminated, and this round promised to be even stricter. Even their best efforts might not suffice.
In the lower-tier practice room, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense as they brainstormed ideas to no avail.
Zhong Zicang noticed Xia Bai was silent, seemingly lost in thought. Knowing Xia Bai wasn’t as clueless as he appeared, he asked, “Xia Bai, what are you thinking?”
Xia Bai replied, “I’m wondering—what exactly does this show want to turn us into? Do we have to become like the talent instructor to clear the game?”
The group suddenly realized they already had a clear, successful model before them—their senior, the talent instructor.
Reflecting on her demeanor, Xia Bai murmured, “Was she always like this? What did she go through? What did she perform on that championship stage?”
—
Author’s Note:
Yang Mei: Is it really just my intelligence that keeps me out of sync with them?
