Chapter 3: The First Performance - "That Girl"

At first, Fang Xing didn’t have much interest in variety show talent competitions. In fact, leaving the show behind meant he could focus on making music, so he didn’t care whether he was eliminated or not.

But now, he’d changed his mind.

I may choose not to compete, but no one can eliminate me.

In this kind of small-time talent show, could a singer of his caliber possibly lose?

However, judging by his current position in the bottom ten of the popularity rankings, it was certain he’d be out after tonight’s performance.

As for turning things around with the live stage—well, that was wishful thinking. He’d only been assigned two lines in the group’s song, barely enough to fill a gap.

Luckily, after the group performance there was still a PK round.

Each team had one slot for the PK—a chance to perform solo.

One song’s worth of time would be enough.

But for the PK round, there would be no band to accompany him, as the musicians didn’t have time to rehearse with every F-class contestant.

So he had to prepare an instrumental track in advance.

Fang Xing could do arrangements himself; all he needed was a computer with a DAW installed. A MIDI keyboard would make things even better. If there wasn’t one, he could always arrange with just a mouse.

Returning to the training camp, Fang Xing heard the sound of a drum pad in the hallway. It sounded like a DJ jamming, with an array of unusual sounds.

He followed the noise to a rehearsal room, peering inside.

A group of contestants were rehearsing. On the drum pad was a returnee with dreadlocks. Fang Xing recalled his name—Hashim, back from Australia, Mandarin a bit shaky, but skilled in English rap and proficient with multiple instruments.

Clearly, Hashim was a real musician and had brought his entire MIDI setup for the show.

MIDI keyboard, guitar, bass, electronic drums, drum pad—he had it all.

It was an impressive arsenal.

Fang Xing needed just that sort of gear to arrange his PK piece.

So he stepped inside, and, seizing a break in Hashim’s playing, politely asked, “Hello, could I borrow your MIDI equipment for a bit? I just need to arrange a backing track—it’ll be quick.”

Hashim glanced at the F-Class insignia on Fang Xing’s T-shirt, then up at the camera in the corner.

He finally replied in halting Mandarin, “My MIDI gear is custom-made, not convenient to lend, sorry, brother.”

Custom MIDI gear could indeed be expensive—sometimes with no upper limit.

“No worries, I’ll ask someone else then.”

Fang Xing smiled politely and turned to leave.

Before he’d even left the room, one of Hashim’s teammates leaned over and asked, “What did that F-class guy want? Trying to spy on our rehearsal?”

With fourteen teams competing in the first group performance, contestants often tried to suss out each other’s preparations. Sometimes the production crew would even film these little espionage moments for the final cut.

Hashim shook his head, mocking, “No, he wanted to borrow my MIDI gear to make an arrangement. That’s my weapon in this battle—my own mother doesn’t touch it, why would I lend it to him?”

“For the PK round’s backing track? Isn’t the PK slot already basically decided?”

Hashim shrugged, dismissive, “Maybe he doesn’t realize tonight’s PK round is all set up for me to showcase my instruments.”

Although Hashim wore the same F-Class shirt, he was different from the rest. During the initial stage assessment, he’d actually challenged an A-Class member for a swap, but failed and wound up in F-Class.

This, of course, was all according to the show’s script.

If the final debut group of eleven were just the original A-Class, there’d be no drama. So, to keep things interesting and generate buzz, the producers would script a couple of F-Class contestants to stage a dramatic comeback and make it into the final group.

That was what kept audiences hooked.

Hashim, in this case, was clearly following the “F-Class dark horse” storyline.

In other words, tonight’s PK slot was already decided. The rest were just there for show.

The two weren’t speaking quietly; Fang Xing heard every word as he left the rehearsal room, lips quirking in amusement. After so many years in the entertainment industry, what depths of intrigue hadn’t he seen?

Tonight, the PK stage would settle things on merit—whoever lost would be the one embarrassed.

…

In the hallway, Fang Xing ran into last season’s champion, Shen Xiyin.

Shen Xiyin had some steppe ancestry, tall and well-proportioned, dressed in a gothic black gown, her eyes as deep and luminous as gems in the night sky.

She’d been the champion of the last season’s “Star of Tomorrow,” and this time had been invited back as a mentor.

Having overheard Fang Xing trying to borrow an instrument, she greeted him, “Are you arranging your own music? Need me to find someone to help?”

But with just a few hours till showtime, the crew was frantic—no one had time to help an F-Class contestant record backing tracks.

Even as Shen Xiyin offered, a director hurried over, “Xiyin, it’s time for rehearsal—the mentors need to run through their segment.”

Fang Xing didn’t know her well, and seeing how busy she was, replied, “Thank you, but it’s alright. I can handle it myself.”

Truthfully, it was impossible—without a DAW, no arrangement could be made.

So Fang Xing gave up, returned to the rehearsal room, practiced with his team, and then went straight into the live show.

…

The first performance began—fourteen teams, fourteen songs.

Fang Xing’s group was captained by Wu Junchen, currently the most popular contestant, and thus saved for last, with the song “That Girl.”

From arrangement to stage effects, everything about this song was crafted by the production team to electrify the crowd and win over female fans.

But getting the finale slot wasn’t necessarily an advantage.

After all, there had already been thirteen performances before "That Girl." By then, the four mentors and the critics were weary, their enthusiasm dulled by several mediocre acts.

As the lights dimmed, seven contestants took the stage, striking their opening poses.

The intro to “That Girl” began—cheerful notes bouncing out like marbles, leading into the first verse.

Fang Xing had the first line.

But opening the song was no privilege; if you sang badly, you'd be sacrificed as an example. The contrast when the next singer began would be glaring, showing a clear progression in skill.

As a nondescript F-Class contestant who refused to play by the show’s script, Fang Xing was meant to be nothing more than a foil for the center.

But to him, it didn’t matter which line he sang.

Every line in a song was important. With enough skill, any line could outshine the rest.

Fang Xing treated every performance with the utmost seriousness—if he was to sing, he’d do it perfectly.

The twenty-second intro ended.

Stepping from the darkness into the spotlight, Fang Xing sang the first verse:

“There’s a girl like that, written in the summer’s diary. There’s a kind of memory, carved deep in the days of youth…”

From the very first note, his chest resonance drew the audience straight into the song’s story and mood.

All four mentors arched their brows in surprise, as if discovering a hidden gem. Especially Chen Chaonan, the most musically adept among them, who actually broke into a rare smile.

To the average ear, Fang Xing’s line, with its relatively low pitch, simply sounded pleasant—nothing extraordinary. But anyone with an ear for music could hear the near-perfect chest resonance, giving his voice depth and magnetism.

In this run-of-the-mill talent show, such a line was a wake-up call—the mentors sat up, suddenly eager to listen more closely.

But Fang Xing had only been given two lines in the whole song—the opening two.

After singing, he moved aside, ceding center stage to Wu Junchen.

Wu Junchen picked up the melody for the third and fourth lines:

“July’s the season, the scenery of farewells…”

The moment the voice changed, the fleeting smile on the mentors’ faces vanished.

The contrast was stark.

Fang Xing’s line brimmed with resonance and warmth; Wu Junchen’s, though bright, was thin and lacked body.

The difference was obvious.

From the third line through the chorus, Fang Xing had no lyrics—just backup dancing.

When Wu Junchen finished his chorus, hitting the high D, the song moved into an instrumental break.

Then, as the second verse began, Fang Xing returned to center stage:

“There’s a kind of longing, quietly kept in my heart. There’s a kind of memory, often bringing a smile to my face…”

With those two lines, the mentors and critics again raised their brows.

It was like chewing on dry bread for ages before finally tasting a sip of fresh tea—revived and alert.

Alas, the tea was only a sip; after two lines, the thin, knife-like voice returned, and, trying to assert his center position, Wu Junchen even sang louder.

The fans in the audience screamed right on cue, as if their idol’s every note could lift their souls.

In the second chorus, Fang Xing harmonized on the last two lines, and as the final piano note faded, the performance ended.

The hall erupted in applause and raucous cheers from the fans.