Chapter 50: Just As Always

“Sure. Why not?”

Two seconds pass.

The words fall—

The music starts on time.

The stage.

Lights come from all directions.

Red, gold, white.

A venue of 20,000 people, and now there’s only the music and the heartbeat.

I smile back, just as always.

As if it’s just a very ordinary performance, as simple as buying a bottle of water at a convenience store.

She smiles too.

The electric guitar cuts in, the drumbeat dense, a sound like fire catching

—it’s “Flame.”

The Flame Queen’s own song.

Yan stands on the right side of the stage, her red dress like a living flame under the lights.

She raises her hand and starts to sing.

I stand on the left, raising my hand with her.

The same movement, the same second.

[Ashes fall on my shoulders Turn into a king’s robe]

My voice travels out from the microphone, layering with hers.

Two female voices—one slightly husky, one slightly clear—collide in the air above the stage, then separate.

Singing the same song—”Flame.”

***

The Agency.

Su Nian stares at the screen, the water bottle clutched in her arms, forgotten.

“This… what’s happening right now?”

Her voice is full of confusion.

Chuxue holds a cup of black tea in her hands.

She hasn’t taken a sip, just holds it.

Shen Wei sits up from the couch, legs crossed, hands braced on her knees.

“An Idol Showdown,” she says, her voice more serious than usual.

“It’s not about fighting, not about who’s stronger.”

Su Nian turns to look at her.

“Then…?”

Well—so what is an Idol Showdown like?

Fight like warriors, and whoever defeats the other wins?

Or, compare who’s stronger?

Who shouts louder?

The answer is obvious.

No.

On stage, each doing their own thing would only throw both sides into chaos.

It would just be fishwives cursing each other out.

“Normally,” Chuxue picks up, her tone slow and easy, “the three parties have to communicate first. The organizer designs the rules, both sides cooperate in the performance. What the audience sees is a sense of ‘confrontation,’ not actual chaos.”

She pauses, glances at the screen.

So Gemstone Princess and Snow Girl performing on the same stage—it could also be seen as a confrontation.

That’s why the outside reaction was so big.

“So the joint stage between Gemstone Princess and Snow Girl was considered that valuable.”

Shen Wei nods.

“That would be a normal confrontation.”

Xiao Xi crouches in the corner, weakly speaks up:

“But now… the situation isn’t like that.”

Shen Wei stares at the two figures on the screen.

“Yeah. Now it’s not normal.”

“Then—”

Su Nian opens her mouth, about to ask something.

Chuxue cuts her off.

“Just keep watching. Won’t you find out?”

Her gaze lands on the pink figure on the screen.

That person stands on the left side of the stage.

Opposite her is the red Flame Queen.

No rehearsal.

No communication.

No rules.

Chuxue looks at the Alice on the TV screen, meaning—keep watching and you’ll understand.

The current situation isn’t normal.

But—is Gemstone Princess normal?

So this kind of scene for Alice—maybe it’s just right.

***

The stage drones circle around.

In my line of sight.

Two people sing together.

Dance together.

“Flame.”

The Flame Queen’s song.

Her stage.

Her rules.

Alice and Yan each occupy one side of the stage, moving with the same choreography.

But—

No rehearsal.

No communication.

No one even knew Alice would sing this song.

And then—someone starts shouting.

Whose name are they shouting?

Can’t tell.

But the shouting rises.

[Fire burns from the palm, Ain’t planning to put it out]

I take two steps left, she takes two steps right.

We’re like two mirrors, brushing past each other at center stage.

In that instant we brush past, I catch a glimpse of her eyes.

—Her pupils are slightly dilated.

She’s shocked.

But that pink figure—can still dance—can still sing.

Not a single lyric wrong.

Not a single beat off.

‘Why…?’

That thought flashes through Yan’s mind.

But there’s no time to think.

The music continues.

The performance continues.

She can only keep singing, keep dancing.

Sweat slides down her forehead.

The answer is simple.

Just like always.

Because I’ve seen it.

Because I’ve learned it.

Question: When suddenly invited by another idol to perform together on stage during a performance, what should you do?

Answer: If it’s a recent popular dance number—assume you’ve learned it during preparation.

Then accept the invitation and dance together.

If it’s a niche song, you can improvise on the spot—since it’s niche, most of the audience won’t notice—or claim later that it was a new choreography.

“Flame” was a song that gained popularity a year ago.

One of the Flame Queen’s debut songs.

It matches the former.

Decision time: 0.05 seconds.

As soon as my brain finished turning, the memories flooded in.

Footage from the stage.

Replays in the room.

Silver Fish’s voice—no longer lazy, replaced by a thread of panic—rang in my ears:

“You know this song too… Are you a monster?”

“I learned it when I was arranging music,” I said flatly.

It was one of the materials.

One of the habits forged from that twelve hundred repetitions.

A year ago, when this song was popular, I danced it in front of the mirror in the training room.

Not deliberately practicing, but as part of memorizing a massive amount of material—understanding, dissecting it.

Later, when I was preparing materials for Su Nian, I pulled this song out again and had her watch it.

She watched, and I watched too.

What twelve hundred repetitions gave me wasn’t just “I can dance it myself”—it’s “I can remember, and understand it better.”

It’s a habit of continuous practice, never stopping.

[This throne doesn’t need warmth, It only needs a view worth seeing]

Sweat slides down my forehead.

One drop.

Two drops.

Tired.

Because my concentration is razor-sharp—every movement compared against memory, every second fine-tuned.

The Flame Queen’s standard movements, and the ones in my memory, have subtle differences.

She’s the original singer, she dances the “original version.”

I dance “the version in my head.”

Where do the two versions differ?

In the angle of the wrist.

In the amplitude of the turn.

In the half-inch tilt of the body when hitting the final pose.

Differences in the body, differences in temperament, differences in experience.

—Differences between “hers” and “mine.”

But the audience can’t tell.

No audience member would pay attention to every frame.

Even if it’s not really the same.

But what they do see: two people performing the same dance, with identical movements.

[I am the flame, I am the wasteland, After the burn, a face barren of life]

Second wave of sweat—hot and wet.

Below the stage, glow sticks begin to sway.

Pink and red mixed together, indistinguishable whose fans are whose.

Yan’s audience chants her name.

My audience chants my name.

Two waves of sound collide, meeting at center stage.

What those twelve hundred repetitions really brought—is the guarantee of no mistakes.

And now—

I’m using them.

***

Right side of the stage.

Alice walks toward Yan’s side of the audience while singing.

Those holding red lightsticks, originally here to see Yan, now look at her.

Their eyes go from confusion, to shock, to… being drawn in.

I walk up to them.

My gaze locks onto them.

Audience smiles?

Pass.

Audience shocked?

Good.

Audience confused?

Expression

—adjust.

Movement

—calibrate.

On the foundation of the main memory, fine-tune.

Frequency: every ten seconds.

Micro-adjustments of hand movements.

Frequency: every second.

Not just for precision—but also for being beautiful, for being timely.

Sweat pours down.

Three times the usual amount.

Because I’ve been constantly calibrating unfamiliar dance moves.

But I don’t stop.

When I reach the very edge, I stop.

Nod slightly toward that direction of the audience.

[If you want to love me, come close, But don’t think about touching me, Not even the ashes belong to anyone]

As natural as on my own stage.

***

One minute passes.

The two of us circle the entire stage and return to our starting positions.

I stand on the left side of the stage.

Yan stands on the right.

Same positions.

Same poses.

But the atmosphere has changed.

Yan’s voice is a bit weaker than before.

She can feel it.

Her eyes are wavering.

What is she thinking?

—Why, can she sing my song?

—Why, can she dance my dance?

—Why, when she goes to my audience, their reaction is bigger toward her than toward me?

I can even sense her breathing getting heavier.

But she doesn’t have the chance to ask these questions.

Because the song continues.

[They say the fire will eventually die, I say then let it die, Before it does, Shine as much as it can]

And—I suddenly sense that my state is optimal.

In my memory, materials, logic, images, movements—begin to reorganize.

The neural memory of having arranged—modified—countless dance routines starts to adapt—move.

A version of “Flame” more suited to me, more suited to Gemstone Princess, more suited to Supernova—Alice—is forming.

[When the ashes finish falling, I’m still standing here]

I understand—I must have accidentally—no, it can’t be helped.

After all, I’m not a true god of the stage.

I can’t do everything.

So I just use all my strength—only use every bit of strength I have—to do it.

Keep singing.

Keep dancing.

The center of gravity of the stage is shifting.

And then—Alice, as always, dominates.

Even on someone else’s turf.

***

First row.

That girl—the one Alice handed the microphone to earlier—her mouth is hanging open now, eyes wide.

The glow stick is held motionless against her chest.

The person next to her nudges her.

“Hey, Alice… is singing Yan’s song?”

She doesn’t answer.

Just stares at that pink figure on stage.

On stage, Alice and Yan each occupy one side, performing the same movements.

But—it looks different.

Yan’s movements are standard.

Practiced countless times.

Her own dance, her own song.

Alice’s movements… are also standard.

Also practiced countless times.

—But that’s someone else’s song.

The girl’s mind can’t process it.

She only knows that every hand raise, every turn from that pink figure, is just right.

Not imitation—it’s “this is my dance” just right.

People in the audience start whispering.

“How does she know the dance?”

“Did she practice it?”

“No way… this is Yan’s song…”

“Look at Yan’s face—”

Someone points toward the stage.

Yan’s face is clearly visible under the lights.

Her mouth is still singing.

Her voice is still there.

But her eyes have changed.

—From confidence, to confusion, to… something unnameable.

Two boys, holding Yan’s glow sticks—red, different from Alice’s pink.

One turns to the other.

“Hey… Yan… seems… she’s being overpowered?”

The other doesn’t speak.

Just stares at the stage.

Stares at that pink figure.

She stands in front of Yan’s audience.

Facing them.

Eyes—blink.

Movements—extend.

And then—she smiles.

That smile is directed at everyone.

And also at them—toward that sea of red glow sticks.

As if to say: I know you came to see her.

That’s fine.

But her movements are even more eye-catching than before.

The height of her hand raise is half an inch higher than Yan’s.

The amplitude of her turn is two degrees wider.

When she hits the final pose, the angle at which her skirt flares up lets the light hit her from below, illuminating her like a burning pink flame.

—It’s clearly Yan’s song.

Clearly Yan’s audience.

But they can’t look away.

That boy holding the red glow stick slowly lowers his hand.

Then slowly raises it again.

Raises it halfway, stops.

Because he realizes he’s still holding red.

But he’s looking at pink.

***

Last thirty seconds.

Sweat flows three times more than usual.

Not because I’m tired.

Because my concentration is hyper-focused, every pore seeping.

My knees start trembling.

Very slight tremors, invisible to outsiders.

But I know.

But I can’t stop.

[When the ashes finish falling, I’m still standing here]

Last note.

I stand still, breathing hard.

My chest heaves.

Sweat drips from my chin, one drop, two drops, three.

The audience is silent for one second.

Then—

Sound.

True explosion.

Shouts surge from all directions.

Pink glow sticks, red glow sticks, all swaying.

Can’t tell whose audience is shouting.

Just shouting.

Yan stands on the other side of the stage, also breathing hard.

She turns her head and looks at me.

In those eyes, something is moving.

Surprise?

Unwillingness?

Or something else?

I don’t know.

I just stand there.

Just as always.

Singing the last repeat of the chorus.

[It’s not that I’m not afraid of the cold, It’s that I’m not afraid of myself]