Chapter 13

The flight to Korea was scheduled for nine o’clock on Christmas morning.

Six trainees, plus their lead teacher and a senior executive, made up a group of over a dozen people. They arrived at the airport at seven to check their luggage.

Though it was early, the trainees were both excited and nervous about the new chapter ahead. They chattered quietly in their backpacks, their voices a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Even at this early hour, the airport was busy with travellers hurrying to and fro. A group of girls with banners ran past not far away. Zhao Yu was dozing off when she heard another trainee say wistfully, “Look—those must be fans here for an airport pickup. When we come back from Korea, we’ll probably have fans waiting for us too, right?”

Lin Zhinan suddenly tugged hard on Zhao Yu’s sleeve, yanking off the cap that had been covering half her face.

Zhao Yu turned around indignantly, but Lin Zhinan’s expression was exaggerated, her voice hushed but barely containing her excitement: “It’s Shen Junyi’s fans! Shen Junyi is at the airport!”

Zhao Yu was instantly wide awake. She sat up straight and looked toward the fans who had just run past.

Lin Zhinan suddenly stood up and announced, “Teacher, I need to use the restroom.”

The teacher didn’t look up from her phone. “Go ahead. We have some time before security—anyone who needs to go should go now.”

Lin Zhinan grabbed the still-gawking Zhao Yu and took off.

Zhao Yu didn’t realize what was happening until they’d run quite a distance. “What are you doing?”

Lin Zhinan shot her that familiar “you’re hopeless” look. “Go see him before we leave! This is basically a gift from heaven! We’re going to be gone for half a year—don’t you want to say goodbye?”

Zhao Yu’s eyes widened as she remembered the snow globe packed in her bag.

Last night, while checking her luggage, Lin Zhinan had complained, “You’ve already got too much stuff—why are you packing this useless junk?” Zhao Yu hadn’t responded, carefully wrapping the snow globe in a box and carrying it in her backpack to avoid it breaking during check-in.

Lin Zhinan dragged the dazed Zhao Yu around for a while before they finally spotted the fan group waiting near the exit area.

Security was keeping order, and the crowd wasn’t too chaotic—fans stood in orderly lines on either side, eagerly awaiting their idol. Lin Zhinan pulled Zhao Yu into the crowd. “Keep your eyes open—this last look will have to last half a year!”

Zhao Yu looked around and noticed some fans holding flowers, others clutching letters, and quite a few with gifts. After a moment’s hesitation, she slowly pulled the snow globe out of her backpack.

Then she handed it to Lin Zhinan.

Lin Zhinan: “What are you doing?”

Zhao Yu: “…When he comes out, can you try to give this to him for me?”

Lin Zhinan’s expression screamed, “Are you kidding me?”

Zhao Yu cut her off before she could speak: “I’m a coward! I know!” She tugged on her sleeve and whined, “Nan Nan, please, please?”

Lin Zhinan gave her a complicated look.

Suddenly, screams erupted from the front.

They both looked up to see people emerging from the exit tunnel.

Shen Junyi was coming out.

All sorts of cries filled the air—”gege,” “baby,” “oppa”—as the crowd surged forward, jostling and shoving.

Zhao Yu and Lin Zhinan weren’t in the front row, but at over 170 cm tall, they had an advantage over most of the girls. They could clearly see Shen Junyi walking toward them, surrounded by his assistant and security.

On camera, he was always smiling—cheerful and radiant, eyes bright.

His hair had been cut short for a new look, and he wore a black baseball cap backwards on his head, giving him a cool, rebellious air. But the moment he smiled, he was still that sunny boy.

Zhao Yu remembered Lin Zhinan’s words—”this last look will have to last half a year”—and didn’t dare blink.

The fans swarmed around him as he walked out, yelling “gege,” “baby,” “husband,” and pushing gifts toward him. He smiled and casually accepted whatever he could reach. Zhao Yu and Lin Zhinan, lacking experience with this kind of thing, were quickly pushed to the edge of the crowd. They watched helplessly as he moved farther and farther away.

Suddenly, Lin Zhinan bellowed: “SHEN JUNYI!”

Her lung capacity was naturally strong—she was a vocalist, after all. That shout was so powerful and resonant that it cut through all the other fans’ voices. And while everyone else was shouting affectionate pet names, her full-name shout came out aggressive and impossible to ignore. Everyone froze and turned to look.

Shen Junyi was stunned too. He turned back with a startled, confused expression.

Zhao Yu ducked her head instantly, hiding in the crowd, wanting to strangle Lin Zhinan on the spot.

Lin Zhinan glanced at her hopeless friend, snatched the gift from her hand, and thrust it forward. “Christmas present for you!”

A stunned Shen Junyi: “?”

The momentarily silent crowd burst into laughter.

Shen Junyi was both amused and exasperated. He walked back, took the gift, and muttered, “You’re giving me a present—why’d you have to scare me like that…”

As the crowd moved on with him, Zhao Yu finally dared to look up cautiously. She breathed a sigh of relief. “He didn’t see me, right?”

Lin Zhinan gave her a look of pure disdain. “Just un-fan yourself already.”

Zhao Yu: “QAQ”

Still, she was happy—she’d managed to give him a Christmas present and bid him a proper farewell. On the plane, everyone else started catching up on sleep, but she was too excited to rest and dragged Lin Zhinan into watching a movie.

The plane soared through the blue sky and white clouds, and in just two hours, they were in a foreign land.

Everything was novel to the trainees, who were visiting Korea for the first time. The production crew sent a car to pick them up, taking them straight to a pre-booked hotel the moment they exited the airport. The show would officially start a week later, giving them time to adjust, shoot pre-competition interviews, and take promotional photos.

Aside from Muyi Entertainment, several other domestic agencies had also sent trainees, but since they weren’t partners, each company only had two slots. The show’s biggest investors and production team were Korean, so the majority of contestants were Korean as well.

Everyone went out exploring the first couple of days. But as other contestants arrived at the hotel—including some already somewhat famous seniors and powerhouse trainees who’d trained for years under Korean agencies—more and more beautiful faces appeared. The pressure started mounting even before the competition began.

Zhao Yu and the others were called into meetings one by one by their company reps.

Individual coaching and instructions—plus the personas assigned to them by the company—were emphasized repeatedly.

Over six months of livestreaming, every action would be magnified. They needed memorable traits, controversy points, and distinctive features on top of presenting their authentic selves. They had to amplify their strengths and hide their flaws, striving to be perfect idols.

Zhao Yu didn’t like that.

Perfect people didn’t exist—she had plenty of little flaws herself. If people could accept them, great; if not, goodbye. She didn’t want to win audiences over with a false front.

But Han Shuang had said every company did this. Once she entered the camp, she’d see countless competitors wearing masks, never allowing themselves a single mistake. Against such “perfect” rivals, even her smallest errors would be magnified.

That made Zhao Yu a little nervous.

Either way, the week flew by. Just after New Year’s, Shining Stars—the live survival show that had been hyped for months—officially launched.

It was the first-ever survival show to attempt live broadcasting. For six months, from training to daily life, everything about the seventy contestants—their eating, sleeping, and daily routines—would be captured on camera. From the moment the trainees entered the camp, the livestream began.

At the same time, the profiles and promotional posters of all seventy contestants went online, and the voting channels opened. Eager viewers flooded into the livestream, with comments in Korean punctuated by occasional Chinese and English, creating a lively atmosphere.

The show was recorded at a massive training camp that had been built half a year in advance. It included training buildings, a cafeteria, dormitories, a sports field—like a small school, fully equipped.

Inside the camp, in addition to automatic cameras positioned at every angle, there were professional follow-cameras to ensure comprehensive, no-blind-spot livestream coverage.

At eight in the morning, the trainees arrived punctually at the camp gate to check in, collect their name tags, and have their microphones fitted. Their company representatives saw them off with final words of encouragement before departing. At ten, the livestream officially began. Seventy vibrant young women appeared on screen, brightening the grey morning.

Next to the live feed was the voting column, updated in real-time. Each person could cast only one vote per day—completely fair. Since some contestants already had established fan bases, their rankings rose within five minutes of the stream starting, and the comments buzzed with enthusiastic discussion.

Due to language barriers and different agencies, there wasn’t much interaction at first. People mostly stuck with their own company groups.

After being led into the camp by the director, the first individual shot was a headcount.

No self-introductions—just a one-second headcount shot, the only solo screen time at the start.

The trainees lined up in seven rows, starting from the front row. Each time a number was called, the camera would focus on that trainee, giving the audience a first impression of all seventy girls.

Zhao Yu stood in the middle of the third row. The moment the director announced the headcount, she started to panic. She silently counted her position and realized her number was twenty-seven. She kept repeating the Korean for “twenty-seven” in her head.

But row by row, when it finally came to her, she still fumbled.

Zhao Yu: “Si… twenty-seven!”

The trainee from her company standing next to her, who’d had it all memorized, was thrown off and blurted out “twenty-eight!” instinctively.

“Twenty-nine!”

“Thirty!”

The Korean trainee who was supposed to be number thirty-one: …What number am I supposed to say again? And