Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Even though the moment passed in a flash, viewers were left with a strong impression of the girl who’d been so nervous she’d blurted out her native language. The comments buzzed with discussion:

— Was that Chinese they were shouting?

— The panicked little expression on number twenty-seven when she stumbled was so adorable!

— Is number twenty-seven’s face for real???

— Even in a puffer jacket, she’s so beautiful! I’m voting for her!

— Hahaha, making these Chinese girls count in Korean is just cruel.

— Holy crap, which domestic agency is she from? Xingyao or Huachang? Her visuals are insane. I think her name tag said something like ‘Yu’?

— The person above! It’s Zhao Yu! I went and looked her up in the posters—she’s got such a sexy figure. Already gave her my vote today!

…

The real-time comments mixed Korean, Chinese, and English, discussing all the contestants who’d made brief impressions. By the time the headcount ended and the seventy trainees were assembled, the director announced the voting rules and the camp regulations everyone would have to follow.

Zhao Yu whispered to Lin Zhinan beside her, “Feels like military training.”

Next came dorm assignments.

Seven people per room, ten dorms total. The production team was surprisingly considerate—instead of random assignments, they let the trainees form their own groups.

The six from Muyi Entertainment naturally grouped together.

Other trainees mostly followed the same pattern, with the few from other Chinese agencies grouping by language as well. Zhao Yu’s group was one short, and everyone nervously scanned the room for anyone left out.

Lin Zhinan, who had the best Korean among them, caught snippets of nearby conversations and translated quietly: “That group of seven over there is all from SW—they’re really strong. Those girls with the pink hair are from JP—they’re trying to team up with another company, but they’ve got one extra person.”

Zhao Yu followed her gaze and saw a group of girls discussing team arrangements. Both sides had four people, making it awkward to single anyone out.

Zhao Yu thought, This is a perfect opportunity!

She was mentally rehearsing the Korean phrases for “hello” when she saw the group seemed to have made a decision—a girl with a bow in her hair stepped back from the group somewhat awkwardly.

The others looked pleased, and the girl smiled along, but the smile seemed forced.

Zhao Yu immediately waved at her. “Hello, hello, look here!”

The girl looked over and hesitantly pointed at herself. “Me?”

Zhao Yu’s Korean was terrible, so she switched to English. “Yes! Do you want to join us?”

The girl looked at the enthusiastic girl across the way, then back at her former groupmates chatting happily among themselves. She lowered her gaze, then smiled and nodded at Zhao Yu.

The group was complete, and everyone was happy. To make the new roommate feel welcome, Zhao Yu struggled through conversation in broken English. “What’s your name?”

The girl was still a bit shy and said softly, “Kristen.”

Zhao Yu turned to her groupmates and said, “She looks like a doll—so cute and well-behaved.”

Kristen didn’t understand Chinese and blinked in confusion.

Zhao Yu asked Lin Zhinan, “How do you say ‘doll’ in Korean?”

Lin Zhinan: “…I don’t know.”

Zhao Yu: “In English?”

Lin Zhinan: “…I don’t know.”

Zhao Yu: “…………” Relying on English to communicate with a Korean friend, she finally settled on simple words: “You look like a princess!”

Kristen smiled shyly.

The training camp was closed-off and managed like a fortress, with cameras in every public space. As Zhao Yu had said, it really was like military training.

This show was different from typical survival competitions.

Most shows start with an introductory stage performance to showcase everyone’s talents. But Shining Stars was more of a “growth” livestream.

What viewers wanted to see was the trainees working hard, improving day by day, and then showcasing their progress at the end-of-month stage performances, experiencing the thrill of a “nurturing” journey.

There would be six stage performances total. After each performance, voting closed, and the bottom ten contestants were eliminated. It was a harsh but fair system.

After moving into the dorms, the production team confiscated all non-essential personal items, including all electronic devices.

They gave the trainees the morning to unpack, get familiar with the environment, and make friends. After lunch, training officially began.

It was even more intense than the Advanced class.

The seventy trainees were randomly divided into two groups and trained by professional instructors in physical fitness, dance, vocals, body shaping, and more.

This was the first time many viewers had ever seen what a trainee’s life was really like.

Besides eating and sleeping, every waking moment was spent training.

Zhao Yu had expected it to be tough, but not this tough.

Her physical conditioning had been considered good in the Advanced class, but entering this camp made her feel just as miserable as when she’d first joined Muyi.

With so many people, individual screen time was scarce.

As Han Shuang had said, every company crafted personas for their trainees. Everyone pulled out all the stops, desperately trying to get the cameras to remember them.

Zhao Yu didn’t go out of her way to perform for the cameras. She trained when it was time to train and rested when it was time to rest.

But because she’d already made an impression during the headcount, her looks and figure were undeniable—a nine-head proportion that stood out even in the uniform training attire. Even when she did nothing, a sweeping camera shot would never overlook her.

Not only was she beautiful, but she was also talented. She never slacked off or complained, and trained tirelessly. She was practically the perfect idol for the “nurturing” fantasy. If not her, who else to vote for?

But what truly cemented her impression on the audience was her interaction with Kristen.

Ever since Kristen had joined their dorm, this native Korean girl had become the other six’s Korean teacher.

Except for Zhao Yu, the other five made rapid progress. For Zhao Yu, learning Korean was even more painful than training.

Kristen looked like a doll and had a gentle, soft temperament. Seeing Zhao Yu struggle, she suggested, “I’ll teach you Korean, and you teach me Chinese, okay?”

Zhao Yu: “Sure, sure!”

One was bad at Chinese, the other bad at Korean. They bumbled through teaching each other, often resorting to English. Every day, viewers watched Zhao Yu suffer through Korean, and whenever she appeared on screen, everyone was reminded of their own fear of studying—equal parts sympathy and amusement.

Turns out even beautiful girls aren’t good at everything!

That made everyone feel better.

After learning Pinyin for a while, Kristen asked, “How do you say your name?”

Zhao Yu told her and wrote it down. Not only Kristen, but also the viewers were surprised.

“Yu”?

What character was that? What did it mean? Why did it look so hard?

Zhao Yu thought for a moment and said, “Do you know Farewell My Concubine?”

The movie was famous, and once she explained it, everyone understood. Kristen and the Korean viewers nodded along. “Yes!”

Zhao Yu: “My name is the ‘Yu’ from Farewell My Concubine!”

Korean viewers and Kristen: “Oh! Got it!”

Chinese viewers: “?”

Have I forgotten how to read Chinese? Where the hell is ‘Yu’ in ‘Farewell My Concubine’???

With Kristen’s one-on-one tutoring, Zhao Yu’s Korean gradually improved. She no longer blurted out Chinese when nervous and occasionally chatted with other Korean trainees during training.

Zhao Yu’s supporters felt incredibly satisfied.

This, they thought, must be the feeling of watching your child make progress in their studies!

January passed like that.

The trainees faced their first stage performance.

This was Zhao Yu’s first official stage since becoming a trainee.

No one knew the current voting rankings, but given that some contestants already had fan bases, it was clear the top spots were likely theirs.

Trainees like Zhao Yu and Lin Zhinan—complete newcomers from China—were at a disadvantage. Neither knew if this would be their last stage.

Nervous or not, they had to give it their all.

For her song choice, Zhao Yu picked an electronic rock track that fused power and sexiness. Lin Zhinan chose a tango. The first stage was about making an impression, so picking what they did best suited them perfectly.

Neither could have predicted this would become their breakout performance.

Lin Zhinan’s Hong Kong retro beauty was perfectly showcased by the tango. Red lips, big curls, a half-silver mask—when she turned back, a rose between her teeth, and removed the mask with a slight smirk, viewers were mesmerized by that glance back.

Screenshots spread like wildfire across Korean social media, with everyone asking who this time-traveling Hong Kong beauty was.

Before the performance, Lin Zhinan had been ranked in the fifties. Afterward, her votes surged to thirtieth place.

Zhao Yu performed second-to-last.

Over the past month, viewers had formed a strong impression of her, and expectations for her performance ran high.

When the cameras had cut backstage, some had noticed her drawing something in a corner. It wasn’t until she stepped on stage that viewers saw the plum blossom painted along her slim waist.

The song was sexy, so her stage outfit followed suit.

Zhao Yu wore only a black cropped top studded with silver rhinestones, her slender, toned waist on full display.

Her fair skin practically glowed under the lights. The red plum blossom traced along her waistline, appearing to grow wildly along her curves—exotic and alluring.

It was an explosively sexy performance.

The plum blossom swayed back and forth in front of the audience, like a reed brushing across their palms, impossible to ignore.

The comments exploded.

Chinese viewers flooded the internet:

— Aaaah, waist demon!!! I’m dead from that waist!!! Waist demon, come at me!!!

Korean viewers were equally excited, especially those who’d supported Zhao Yu from the start—they felt their investment had paid off big time.

But the frequent appearance of “waist demon” piqued the curiosity of Korean viewers who couldn’t read Chinese.

People asked: What does “waist demon” mean? Don’t use Chinese to praise her! We can’t understand!

Some Chinese netizens explained, and some Korean netizens with half-baked Chinese looked it up themselves. With all the explanations back and forth—and Chinese being a deep and complex language—Korean viewers finally concluded:

— Ah! It means “spirit”! Now we get it!

Go get ’em, human spirit Zhao Yu!