“Hey… is Su Nian improvising right now?”
Shen Wei stared intently at the stage, her hand unconsciously gripping the arm of the person beside her.
The grip was strong.
The person she grabbed—Xiao Xi—stammered, shrinking her shoulders as she held her phone.
“I… I don’t know, Sister Shen Wei…”
“Ah—”
Shen Wei heard the weak tone of her companion and knew she wouldn’t get an answer, so she let go.
She bit her thumb in thought.
‘Tch. Of all times, Senior Chuxue and President Lin aren’t here.’
She muttered inwardly, her mind spinning rapidly.
***
On the stage.
Su Nian had already finished singing the first chorus.
The music continued, but she didn’t follow the rehearsal arrangement for the next part—instead, she spun around.
[If you can’t run, then walk slowly]
[If you can’t walk, then stand still]
[Wait for dawn, wait for the wind]
[Wait for the daring Moment]
The hem of the knight outfit flared up, spreading under the lights, a silver trim flashing—not the soft flow of a skirt, but a sharp, angular flip.
[They say you don’t deserve to stand there]
[They say you’re not bright enough, not hot enough]
[But they don’t know I’ve practiced until sweat drips down]
[Burning scars into the floor]
When she stopped, her ponytail swung forward and settled on her shoulder.
She casually smoothed it, her fingers sliding through the strands, then began walking toward the left side of the stage—”roaming.”
Like water following a river, she roamed along the edge, learning from Alice’s Mode.
Different movements, but the same effect.
The audience in the front rows began to stir.
On the side stage and elsewhere, the staff also kept up—surprise showed on their faces, but they chose to follow the girl on stage.
One of the lighting technicians, at the side stage, paused with his hand on the fader.
He looked at the white figure on stage, stunned for a second, but his body kept moving.
—He recalled the special training from these past days.
At the time, he’d thought: ‘Another rich kid just playing around.’
But that young man named Lin had overturned their understanding on the very first day.
Hell—he stood on stage and pointed out the problems in the entire process in just a few words, clearer than people who’d been working for ten years.
By the second day, no one dared to disobey.
Later, they even found that listening to that man taught them things—things the old lighting and sound technicians couldn’t teach, but he could.
So expectations slowly rose: what kind of idol was such training preparing? They’d discussed it privately.
Some guessed it was a hidden card from a big agency, some guessed it was a trainee returning from overseas, and others guessed that the man named Lin himself was about to debut.
The answer came quickly: a newcomer.
A pure newcomer.
He remembered the look on his face that day—disappointment, almost undisguised.
He consoled himself: no one can be perfect at everything.
Being professional on the stage side and amateur on the people-reading side was normal.
But this newcomer changed day by day.
Visibly—
Until tonight.
The first official performance, the finale of the 800-person venue.
She stood on stage and actually dared to improvise.
He thought he would panic.
Lighting technicians fear improvisation the most—no pre-set cues, no blocking markers, all guesswork.
But his hands didn’t panic.
Wherever the white figure went, the light followed.
It wasn’t because of his skill—it was because she walked accurately.
Every step was in the light, as if the light was waiting for her, not her chasing the spotlight.
Su Nian’s performance didn’t fall apart because of the improvisation.
Because the audience’s reaction—it was that kind of “wow” amazement, that kind of “oh?” curiosity.
Someone in the front row leaned forward.
By the fifth row, no one was looking at their phone screens anymore; everyone was watching intently.
In the last row, the person who’d been eating sunflower seeds unconsciously paused.
—Expectation was rising.
What she pulled up, they also pulled up themselves.
[They say you don’t deserve to stand there]
[They say you’re not bright enough, not hot enough]
[But they don’t know I’ve practiced until sweat drips down]
[Burning scars into the floor]
Her voice came through the speakers.
When she sang the word “hot,” her voice cracked.
A very small crack, like a fissure in glass.
But that cracked note landed heavier in the audience’s ears than any perfect note turn.
Because she didn’t dodge it.
She let that crack hang there and kept singing.
—Like a knight who knows it’s difficult but will never give up.
Its charm didn’t just capture hearts—it moved hearts.
[Not a genius, not a myth]
[Not the “light from someone else’s house” in anyone’s mouth]
[I am the one still chasing]
[Fool—]
The improvisation ended.
Next verse.
The music rose again.
[Not someone’s shadow]
[Not the second line of someone else]
This time, it wasn’t just the audience.
Even the idols who had been peeking backstage poked their heads out.
They were idols who had already performed and planned to go rest.
[I am the one who said “I can do it”]
[And really can]
But hearing the sound outside, they couldn’t help moving a few steps closer to the stage entrance.
The one in front, wearing a red dress similar to Su Nian’s, held the edge of the curtain with her hand, her mouth slightly open.
Next to her, a girl with a high ponytail tapped her fingers softly on her pants leg—following the music, following Su Nian’s rhythm.
***
Offstage, there were quite a few familiar faces in the audience.
Not just Shen Wei and Xiao Xi.
The silver trim on the knight outfit’s collar reflected a dim light under the stage lights, rising and falling softly with her breathing.
[Fall down and get back up]
[It hurts but don’t cry, crying is not scary]
[Even if I’m half a beat behind, even if I’m different]
[I am my own Echo]
In the third row on the left, a few girls were sitting.
Su Nian recognized them—her former coworkers from the maid cafe.
They were in casual clothes, not holding lightsticks, but their phones were raised.
[If you can’t run, then walk slowly]
[If you can’t walk, then stand still]
[Wait for dawn, wait for the wind]
[Wait for the daring Moment]
The rhythm slowed down, leaving only the piano.
Finally—a person both unexpected and reasonable.
Su Nian noticed her.
The other starting point of this performance—her sister, Su Wanqing.
She had come too.
But strangely, Su Nian felt no fear.
Only—
The instinct to show everything she had to them!
[You ask me if I can—]
[I say—]
[You listen—!!]
***
For the final chorus, Su Nian started a key raise—she knew what it meant, but simply sensed that this was how it should be sung here.
[Fall down and get back up—!]
[It hurts but don’t cry—crying is not scary—!]
[Even if I’m half a beat behind, even if I’m different]
[I am my own—]
The atmosphere grew more and more excited.
The heat slowly rose—like water boiling to ninety degrees.
Someone started clapping along to the rhythm.
The clapping, in the eight-hundred-person venue, spread like sparks: here a little, there a little, gradually connecting.
Finally—
[Brave one—!]
The last line of the outro.
[Wait for the light to fall on me.]
Finished.
The last word sung, she stood there.
Panting.
Sweat slid down her forehead, flowed along her nose bridge to the tip, hung there, caught the light for a moment, then dripped down.
It fell on the stage floor, blotting a small dark spot.
Her knees were trembling.
The collar of the knight outfit was damp with sweat in a small area, a shade darker than the surrounding fabric.
The silver trim still glimmered, rising and falling faintly with her breaths.
But the performance went smoothly.
So smoothly it was unbelievable.
It was the kind of silence where eight hundred people simultaneously forgot to applaud, forgot to shout, forgot to breathe.
That silence lasted a second.
Two seconds.
Then—
“Encore—!”
The sound came from the third row—it was those former coworkers from the maid cafe, shouting in unison.
They stood up.
Their phones were still raised, but they weren’t filming.
They just stood and shouted.
“Encore—!”
Another voice.
This time from the left, someone unknown.
“Encore—!”
The right side followed too.
“Encore—!”
“Encore—!”
The voices grew, louder and louder.
Not the whole venue, but far more than “scattered”—sounds she had earned herself.
Su Nian stood on stage, listening to those voices.
Her knees still trembled, sweat still flowed, her throat dry and sore.
But she stood there.
She didn’t bow, didn’t exit.
She just stood and listened.
She turned her head and glanced toward the side curtain.
Xiao Xi stood there, hands clasped in front of her chest, eyes red, mouth open, wanting to shout but not daring.
Shen Wei stood beside her, hand on Xiao Xi’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the stage.
Su Nian turned back and looked toward the back of the audience.
Su Wanqing still sat there.
Didn’t stand up, didn’t shout, didn’t clap.
Just sat, watching her.
But her posture had changed—earlier, she sat very straight, as if observing.
Now she leaned back in the chair, both hands on her knees, fingers slightly curled—a scrutinizing gaze that could send chills down one’s spine.
“Encore—!!”
***
The performance really did go smoothly—at least, it looked that way.
Someone even called for an encore.
But Su Wanqing saw it—stamina.
“Not enough stamina.”
Shen Wei and Su Wanqing said it almost at the same time.
They saw Su Nian’s legs trembling slightly.
The foundation was still weak—and yet, she was excellent.
But that was the problem.
Stage performances are very different from training.
During training, even if your form falters, you can keep going.
Five times, ten times, fifteen, twenty times—all possible.
But not on stage.
On stage, you get one chance.
Mistakes cannot be allowed.
No matter how exhausted, deformity is absolutely forbidden.
Besides maintaining absolute movements, you need to adapt to the stage in real time—nervousness, internal exhaustion, mental energy… let alone the improvisation she had just done.
So without excellence, no one calls for an encore, and this weakness doesn’t show.
But without excellence—you can’t make people call for an encore.
“Encore!!”
She hesitated.
This was her first hesitation since stepping on stage.
In those few seconds before deciding whether to accept the encore calls, she did only one thing:
Her eyes searched for the first time—
‘President…’
The person who had promised to come watch her performance.
The person with whom she had agreed to surpass someone together.
But he wasn’t there…
‘Can’t find him…’
‘No matter how I look, I can’t find him.’
The silver trim on the knight outfit still reflected light.
The sweat stain on the collar was still there.
Her ponytail was askew, a few strands of hair stuck to her face and neck.
Her knees still trembled.
She wanted to say something more in her heart.
But time was gone.
The “Encore” calls were already fading.
Su Nian gritted her teeth.
Just as she was about to make a decision—
Click—the door leading out of the theater, the one directly visible from the stage, opened.
Walking out from it was—