The Recording Begins

The reason Ling Tinglan was upset was simple.

No straight girl would ever want to share a dorm with a strange guy—even if she was currently trapped in a male body.

But Li Shu knew none of this, and for a long time afterward, he held an incredibly “terrifying” impression of Ling Tinglan.

After recording the pre-interview, all the trainees were gathered in the studio.

Seat selection was a process with a lot of exclusive camera time meant for the audience to recognize faces, so it wasn’t their turn. The two of them casually picked an inconspicuous spot next to each other and sat down, though the trainees around them suddenly felt immense pressure.

Suddenly, the studio lights went out, and a dozen spotlights converged on one spot. As the stage’s revolving door activated, a woman appeared in the center of the stage.

“Hello, trainees. I am Jiang Ruyao, the national producer representative for ‘Super Star.'”

Though she was only in her thirties now, Jiang Ruyao had been a senior in the industry for twenty years.

She herself had come from an old-school talent show, but in that era, singing ability was generally valued more. Her path as a “singer-dancer” wasn’t very mainstream. Although she had turned to behind-the-scenes work in recent years, her status and experience were quite fitting. It made perfect sense for the show to invite her as the head mentor.

Jiang Ruyao held her mic. “Welcome to the recording of the first stage. Next, let’s welcome our other three mentors!”

The lights on stage shifted again.

The vocal mentor, Qi Sheng, was a currently popular male singer in the country. He was young and good-looking, and in the singer circle, he had a relatively loyal fanbase. His fan ecosystem was more idol-like than some idols themselves.

The dance mentor, Jin, was an accomplished dancer from Europe and America who had won multiple international dance competition awards. He specialized in hip-hop, jazz, and locking. He was the regular choreographer for the top group Aether (Fifth Element). His professionalism was arguably the highest among the mentor panel.

The rap mentor, Han Jiang, came straight from the underground, having risen to the mainstream through a massive rap competition show two years prior. Among underground rappers, who were infamous for their constant controversies, he had a decent reputation.

Ling Tinglan and Jiao Wangshu were seated at the very edge, so much so that they could barely see the mentors’ faces. They mechanically followed the other trainees in standing, clapping, and cheering, not realizing that today’s torment had only just begun.

On regular days, watching variety shows meant seeing the edited final product—the editing magic automatically “simplified” things. But in an actual recording, there was no fast-forward button.

There were at least thirty stages for the first round. Even if each stage only performed for two minutes, that didn’t include the contestants’ self-introductions, mentors’ comments, and extra talent showcases…

With that process, each stage took at least twenty minutes. So just for the first stage, the recording would take ten hours. Even if they compressed the time, it would still be seven or eight hours straight.

And on top of that, this was a pan-continental talent show co-hosted with overseas platforms. The China, Japan, Korea, and Thailand teams were divided into four major groups, with trainees from each group taking turns on stage.

Plus, the contestants spoke different languages, creating communication barriers that would extend the recording time even more.

The first group to perform was the Chinese Group (Panda team) from Tianhua Cultural Media, a five-person team.

They wore matching uniforms with personalized touches, making them all look polished and already idol-like.

The most eye-catching was the boy in the center, with bright red hair. His accessories, big and small, clinking and clanging, perfectly embodied maximalism.

The camera panned to the stage. The five of them bent over together.

“Hello, everyone! We are trainees from Tianhua Cultural Media!”

“Zayn—Ji Yan”

“Lead vocalist, Bai Shuyang”

“Main dancer, Jin Min”

“Visual, Gu Shiwan”

“Maknae, Haha—Lu Chen”

“We are ‘Dawn Era’ MAX!”

Their unified chant overwhelmed the others in momentum alone.

Jiao Wangshu sat up with interest. This was his first time watching a performance so close to the stage.

It was said that this group had trained under Korea’s system, and their main dancer, Jin Min, was of mixed Chinese-Korean descent, now holding Chinese nationality.

As expected, it was a complete stage. Singing, dancing, and stage presence were all on point. They were a mature group ready to debut. Even though the mentors deliberately withheld top marks for the opening performance, they still got three As and two Bs.

Having started smoothly, the next group was the Japanese Group (Sakura team)—a duo, one tall and one short. Their styles were quite different from each other, so why they formed a team was unclear.

One was better at singing, the other at dancing, so they got one C and one B. But their names, Ziyao and Chunshan Cou, were quite pleasant, leaving a strong impression on Ling Tinglan and Jiao Wangshu.

Next came a Korean Group trainee—Han Yushuo. He was the first to perform as an individual trainee today. And he was also a rare “mature man” type.

He was already 27, which was indeed a bit old for a trainee. But Han Yushuo had undeniable personal charm. He ran a bar and worked as a resident singer, and was also skilled at composing. Unsurprisingly, he got an A grade.

But the ones who really stirred the atmosphere were the Thai trio. They performed an authentic “electronic folk rock” that got everyone singing along. Their names were too long, though; after listening carefully, Ling Tinglan and Jiao Wangshu could only remember their nicknames: Nio, Cove, and Kael. The vibe was hot, but their grades were cold: one C, one D, one F.

The endless rounds dragged on. They started recording at three in the afternoon, had a boxed lunch break, and continued at eight in the evening. Everyone’s exhaustion was obvious.

“No one told me that idols had to be made of iron. Don’t they ever get hemorrhoids?” Ling Tinglan couldn’t help complaining, slumping into a “human pancake.”

“Keep your voice down!” Jiao Wangshu swore he had never seen so many cameras. Though he knew most of them probably weren’t aimed at them, he couldn’t be so “blunt.” “You’re ruining your persona, you know?”

“And you’re really huge now. Stop leaning on me. Have some self-awareness, will you?”

“No way.”

Hearing this, Ling Tinglan pouted and pressed in even closer. “Oh, Jiao Wangshu, you dare to start disliking me now? Take my headbutt attack!”

He buried his head in Jiao Wangshu’s neck. His hair, stiff with gel, stood up in prickly spikes, rubbing Jiao Wangshu’s neck red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Jiao Wangshu struggled and begged for mercy. “Long live King Ling! Long live! Spare my life…”

“Hmph.”

Finally, after another long hour—

“Next up—”

“Donghai Media.”

Jiao Wangshu smoothed his hair slightly and dragged the stiff Ling Tinglan onto the stage.

Yes, Ling Tinglan was completely fried.

As a textbook case of “fierce at home, timid outside,” he was fine as a silent audience member. But when it was his turn to stand on stage, his “camera phobia” kicked in.

Good thing he had this face now. No matter how twisted and screaming his inner self was, as long as he kept a blank expression, he still looked like a cool, handsome guy. Only Jiao Wangshu, who knew him well, could accurately read his emotions.

The camera was cruel and painfully honest.

They say the camera adds pounds and makes you ugly. But when someone was already so good-looking that they broke the dimensional wall, the word “photogenic” became meaningless.

And worse, there were two of them at once.

“Sss—”

Someone gasped sharply. In the silence that had fallen since their entrance, it was incredibly loud.

That sound was like a switch. Everyone snapped out of their daze. The trainees below kept whispering, their expressions exaggerated. The noise grew louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jiao Wangshu even saw a Korean contestant in the front row pointing at him and jabbering something to his teammates. He couldn’t understand a word.

His attention was on their rich body language. He even had the mind to drift off, marveling that art truly imitates life—their movements were just like in K-dramas. How novel.

Jiang Ruyao widened her eyes and incredulously flipped through the info cards in her hand. “Oh my god! You two are so handsome! Which company are you from?”

The first-stage recording was almost over, and they had run out of comments. There weren’t many groups left. She hadn’t expected such quality contestants still to come. Was this some hidden mission from the production team?

Standing on stage, Jiao Wangshu smiled. “Hello, everyone. We are trainees from Donghai Media. I am Jiao Wangshu.”

“I am Ling Tinglan.”

Together, they bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

This was from the crash course in “idol etiquette” before the show: call everyone teacher, bow at every opportunity. Being polite never hurt.

The performance began. They both turned their backs to the audience. The prelude music started.

Instantly, a trainee below exclaimed, “Oh! It’s this song!”

—”Warrior.”