In the editing room, 2 a.m.
Wang Hai had been staring at the screen showing Lin Wanwan sleeping for a full three hours.
On the monitor, the figure sprawled out in deep slumber remained motionless, her breathing as steady as a hibernating bear. The live chat was still scrolling—at 2 a.m., there were still eight hundred thousand people online watching her sleep.
“This is insane…” He rubbed his temples. “The world has gone mad.”
The editor cautiously asked, “Director Wang, how should we edit tomorrow’s trailer?”
Wang Hai fell silent.
According to the original plan, Lin Wanwan was meant to be the cannon fodder, the negative example, the contrast used to highlight the “hard work” of the other celebrities. The trailer should have featured her “scandals”—sleeping in, arguing with the director, refusing to cooperate with filming—accompanied by melancholic music and a voiceover asking, “How much further can she go?”
But now, he glanced at the trending topics.
#Lin Wanwan’s Sleeping Livestream# was still holding steady at third place.
Clicking into it, all he saw were fans’ “goodnight check-ins” and “sleeping companion diaries.”
“Director Wang?” the editor called out again.
Wang Hai took a deep breath. “Edit it. But change the approach.”
“What approach?”
“Just edit her sleeping. Add nothing, say nothing. Title it ‘Lin Wanwan’s Twelve Hours.’”
The editor’s eyes widened. “Will… will that work?”
“We’ll let the data speak for itself tomorrow.” Wang Hai stood up and walked to the door, then turned back. “Oh, and tomorrow at 7 a.m., deliver the rulebook to her room.”
“The rulebook?”
“The thirty-page one, the participant guidelines.” Wang Hai flashed a meaningful smile. “Since she wants to play, let her understand the rules clearly.”
At 7 a.m., Lin Wanwan was awakened by a knock on the door.
“Miss Lin, your materials.”
Groggily, she got up to open the door. A staff member shoved a thick booklet into her hands and then scurried away.
Lin Wanwan looked down: Strive On! Celebrity Participant Rulebook (Third Edition), a full thirty pages densely packed with text.
She blinked, fully awake now.
“Is this… for me to study?”
The System didn’t respond, but she knew this was undoubtedly that old fox Wang Hai’s trick—giving her the rules so she’d perform accordingly, and if she messed up, he’d have an excuse to edit her “uncooperative” footage.
Lin Wanwan smiled.
She picked up the rulebook, returned to bed, leaned against her pillow, and began flipping through it page by page.
On the livestream screen, Lin Wanwan quietly read the rulebook.
Livestream chat:
“She’s awake! She’s awake!”
“Wait, what’s she reading?”
“Looks like the rulebook?”
“Damn, thirty pages, is she really reading it?”
“The other celebrities probably haven’t even opened theirs.”
“She’s reading so seriously…”
At 10 a.m., the other seven celebrities were rehearsing the theme song in the practice room.
The center position was held by Su Chen, a popular idol with thirty million fans after three years in the industry. It was said that this show was a crucial step in his transition to becoming a “serious actor.”
Sweetheart Xia Mo stood in the second row, dancing while stealing glances at the camera to ensure she looked good from every angle.
Team leader Chen Xuan led the dance at the front, his movements precise but soulless, his eyes occasionally darting to the others as he calculated each person’s performance.
In the corner, singer-songwriter Xu Mo practiced the dance moves alone, clumsy but earnest.
As the song ended, Su Chen wiped his sweat and took the water handed to him by his assistant.
“I heard that Lin Wanwan is still sleeping?” he asked casually.
Xia Mo immediately chimed in, “Exactly! Just now when I went to get water, I passed by her room, and the door was tightly shut.”
“Tsk tsk,” Su Chen shook his head, “How does someone like that even deserve to be on this show?”
Chen Xuan walked over and lowered his voice, “Don’t say that, she’s currently trending number one.”
“Just black fame,” Su Chen sneered, “That kind of hype won’t last three days. Once the audience’s novelty wears off, she’ll fade right back into obscurity.”
Xia Mo covered her mouth and laughed, “Brother Chen is right. Those of us who work hard and stay grounded are the ones on the right path.”
Xu Mo stood to the side without saying a word. But he didn’t know that all of this had been captured by the live broadcast camera.
Live stream comments:
“???”
“Is Su Chen getting arrogant?”
“Talking behind someone’s back, so low”
“That smile from Xia Mo looks so fake”
“Wait, do they not know their mics are on?”
“The production team must be doing this on purpose!”
In the control room, Wang Hai watched the monitor screen, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
He was indeed doing it on purpose.
During the morning meeting, he had specifically notified all the artists: “Equipment testing before nine, don’t speak carelessly.” But he deliberately postponed the testing time to ten-thirty—leaving exactly this hour and a half of “free conversation,” while the live broadcast was running the entire time.
“Director Wang,” an assistant whispered, “Won’t this…”
“Won’t what?” Wang Hai cut him off, “Let them talk. The audience loves this.”
Lin Wanwan closed the manual after finishing the last page.
Thirty pages—she had read them all.
Not only read them, but she had also scanned them with the [Eye of Truth]—a skill she had just activated yesterday and hadn’t used yet, so this was the perfect opportunity to test it.
With a thought, layers of glowing halos appeared over the rulebook in front of her:
[Page 3 · Clause 2.4] Surface meaning: Trainees must cooperate with all arrangements made by the production team for recording; hidden information: This is a mandatory clause, violations may result in reduced screen time.
[Page 12 · Clause 7.8] Surface meaning: Trainees should maintain unity and friendship; hidden information: Public conflicts are prohibited, violators will receive a warning.
[Page 28 · Appendix 3 · Clause 3.2]
Lin Wanwan’s gaze paused here.
[Clause 3.2] Trainees may apply for a “Single-Ability Assessment,” requiring a written application submitted 24 hours in advance, which takes effect after approval by three or more mentors. If the assessment score reaches S-level, it can offset absences or failing records in other projects.
Below was a line of fine print, smaller than ants: “Note: This clause applies to trainees unable to complete all assessments due to injury, illness, or other reasons. The right of interpretation belongs to the production team.”
Lin Wanwan smiled.
The right of interpretation belongs to the production team? Then she would take that right of interpretation for herself.
She pulled out her phone, opened the notes app, and began typing: “Single-Ability Assessment Application.” After finishing the last word, she stood up and opened the door.
The VJ was squatting by the door, dozing off, and jolted awake at the sound of the door opening, “M-Miss Lin!”
“Let’s go,” Lin Wanwan slipped her phone into her pocket, “Time to eat.”
“Huh? Again?”
“After eating, we’re going to the practice room.”
The VJ was stunned, “You’re going to practice?”
Lin Wanwan looked back, smiling meaningfully, “Not to practice. To watch the show.”
When Lin Wanwan appeared in the cafeteria holding her tray, the room instantly fell silent.
Su Chen’s chopsticks froze mid-air, Xia Mo’s smile stiffened on her face, Chen Xuan lowered his head pretending to eat, and only Xu Mo glanced up at her—his eyes held no hostility, only curiosity.
Lin Wanwan swept her gaze around.
[Eye of Truth, activate.] Instantly, dense clusters of emotion tags floated before her eyes:
Su Chen: [Hostility 78%] [Contempt 65%] [Vigilance 82%] — “Why does she get to be the top trending search?”
Xia Mo: [Jealousy 91%] [Hypocrisy 88%] [Scheming 74%] — “Find a way to ride on her popularity.”
Chen Xuan: [Scheming 93%] [Indifference 87%] [Exploitation 79%] — “Her traffic can be used for my benefit.”
The other few artists: Each had their own hypocrisy, each had their own schemes.
Only Xu Mo was different.
Xu Mo: [Curiosity 84%] [Appreciation 32%] [Resonance 57%] — “Are the things she said really true?”
Lin Wanwan withdrew her gaze, picked up her meal tray, and walked over to sit opposite Xu Mo.
Xu Mo was stunned, and the others were also taken aback.
Lin Wanwan picked up a piece of spare rib with her chopsticks, took a bite, and said indistinctly, “Why are you looking at me? Eat.”
Xu Mo hesitated for a moment, then asked softly, “You… you really slept the whole time?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Then… the trending search…”
“I want to know too.” Lin Wanwan swallowed the rib. “I’m also confused about how sleeping got me to the top of the trending list.”
Xu Mo couldn’t help but laugh.
Xia Mo watched this scene from afar, her expression unpleasant.
Live stream chat:
“Holy crap, she went to Xu Mo!”
“Xu Mo’s smile is so goofy, hahaha”
“The others’ faces are all green”
“So she did it on purpose, right?”
“Whether it’s on purpose or not, I love watching it!”
In the practice room, everyone was rehearsing the theme song.
Lin Wanwan sat in the rest area in the corner, legs crossed, watching them practice.
Su Chen danced with extra effort, every movement directed toward her—clearly trying to use “hard work” to shame her.
Xia Mo also performed desperately, but her eyes kept drifting toward the camera, ensuring she was being filmed.
Chen Xuan danced while observing the entire room, acting like a human surveillance camera.
Xu Mo was still as clumsy as before, but had improved a little compared to the morning.
As the song ended, Su Chen walked over panting, looking down at Lin Wanwan from above. “Miss Lin, are you planning to just sit there the whole time?”
Lin Wanwan looked up and blinked. “Is there a problem?”
“The rules don’t say you can’t sit,” Su Chen sneered, “but don’t you feel you’re letting down the audience’s expectations?”
“The audience’s expectations?” Lin Wanwan tilted her head. “Teacher Su, have you read the live chat?”
Su Chen was taken aback.
Lin Wanwan took out her phone, opened the live stream page, and handed it to him.
On the live stream screen, the chat was flooding:
“Wanwan looks so well-behaved sitting there”
“Is she supervising their practice? Hahahaha”
“Su Chen, stop pretending, you rushed the beat earlier”
“Xia Mo’s expression is killing me”
“When is Wanwan going to sleep again? I want to watch you sleep”
Su Chen’s expression changed.
Lin Wanwan took back her phone, stood up, and patted his shoulder. “Teacher Su, hard work is good, but don’t work so hard only to realize what the audience wants to see…”
She paused, her eyes curving into a smile. “…is actually me sleeping.”
Su Chen’s face flushed red and then turned pale. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t utter a single word.
Live stream viewer count: 2.03 million.
The chat exploded:
“Hahahahaha, what a killer move!”
“Su Chen’s face is green”
“The audience wants to watch her sleep! That’s brutal, bro”
“With that statement, the other artists’ efforts were all for nothing”
“I declare this the best quote of the season.”
In the control room, Wang Hai watched the scene unfold, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk.
“This girl…” he murmured, “she really dares to say it.”
An assistant whispered, “Director Wang, should we intervene?”
Wang Hai shook his head. “Intervene? Let the bullet fly for a while.”
At four in the afternoon, rehearsals ended. Lin Wanwan didn’t return to the dormitory but instead headed toward the director’s office area.
Wang Hai was reviewing footage when he heard a knock. Looking up, he saw the face that gave him headaches.
“Lin Wanwan? What are you doing here?”
Lin Wanwan slapped a piece of paper onto his desk.
“An application.”
Wang Hai glanced down: “Application for Individual Skill Assessment.”
Applicant: Lin Wanwan
Requested Item: Vocal Performance Assessment
Reason for Application: According to Appendix 3, Section 3.2 of the Rulebook
Requested Time: Concurrent with tomorrow’s theme song assessment
Signature: Lin Wanwan
Wang Hai was stunned.
Of course, he knew this rule—he had personally written it years ago, as a safety net for “special circumstances” among the trainees. But in all these years, no one had ever used it.
Because no one ever bothered to read through the thirty-page rulebook.
“You…” He looked up at Lin Wanwan. “You read the entire rulebook?”
“Yes,” Lin Wanwan nodded. “All thirty pages. Including the fine print in the appendices.”
Wang Hai fell silent.
He suddenly remembered his intention that morning when he had someone deliver the rulebook—it was to make Lin Wanwan “back down,” to make her understand that the show’s rules weren’t something she could challenge.
And the result? Not only did she read it, but she also found the most deeply hidden clause.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You need an S-rank in the individual assessment to offset other items. Do you know what an S-rank means? Even professional singers with ten years of experience can’t guarantee they’ll get an S-rank.”
Lin Wanwan nodded. “I know.”
“Then why are you still applying?”
“Because…” Lin Wanwan looked at him, her eyes shining. “If the rules say I can, then I will.”
Wang Hai opened his mouth to argue but found no grounds.
The rule was indeed written—by him.
“Fine,” he gritted his teeth. “I’ll forward this to the mentor panel. But whether they agree or not is not up to me.”
“Thank you, Director Wang.” Lin Wanwan turned to leave but glanced back. “Oh, and please tell the mentors…”
“For tomorrow’s assessment, remember to bring earplugs.”
Wang Hai was puzzled. “Why?”
Lin Wanwan smiled. “Because…”
She paused, pushed the door open, and walked out. “It might get a little loud.”
At five in the afternoon, dinner time.
Lin Wanwan had just sat down when Xu Mo approached with his tray.
“Um…” he said nervously. “You went to see the director this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To apply for an individual assessment.”
Xu Mo’s eyes widened. “Individual assessment? That hidden rule?”
Lin Wanwan raised an eyebrow. “You know about it too?”
“I read the rulebook,” Xu Mo scratched his head. “I’m not well-known, so I thought I’d study the rules thoroughly, just in case there was an opportunity…”
Lin Wanwan looked at him and suddenly smiled.
Eye of Truth activated.
Xu Mo: [Sincerity 92%] [Nervousness 67%] [Anticipation 53%]
“What did you apply for?” she asked.
“Songwriting,” Xu Mo said. “Original composition. But the mentor panel hasn’t approved it yet.”
Lin Wanwan nodded and said nothing more.
Xu Mo hesitated for a moment and asked softly, “You… are you really good at singing?”
Lin Wanwan picked up a piece of meat, put it in her mouth, chewed it slowly, and then looked at him. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”
At eight in the evening, Lin Wanwan lay on her bed and took out the bottle of Heavenly Voice Restoration Agent from her inventory.
The transparent liquid flowed inside the bottle, emitting a faint blue glow.
“Drink it…” she murmured, “and I’ll be able to sing again.”
Before her last performance in her previous life, her voice had already been damaged. But she still sang—with a torn, hoarse, blood-stained voice. Then she collapsed on stage and never got up again.
She unscrewed the bottle cap and drank it all in one go.
The moment the liquid entered her throat, a warm sensation spread from her throat throughout her body. That feeling… was like a riverbed that had been dry for thousands of years finally welcoming its first spring rain.
She cleared her throat, and her voice was clear, like a mountain spring. She cleared her throat again and tried a high note.
C5, steady.
E5, effortlessly reached.
G5, without any strain.
She stopped at a pitch she had never dared to imagine—High C, performed flawlessly.
Lin Wanwan looked at the ceiling, her eyes growing slightly warm.
“In this life…” she whispered, “I’ll sing however I want.”
At ten in the evening, the trending topics flooded the screen again.
#Lin Wanwan Applies for Individual Assessment#—15th place, rising.
Inside, the show’s official Weibo posted a preview: “Tomorrow’s theme song assessment, @Lin Wanwan applies for an individual vocal assessment. Is it a desperate gamble or self-inflicted humiliation? Tomorrow at 8 PM, see you in the livestream.”
Comments section:
“Damn, there’s such a thing as an individual assessment?”
“Did she study the rules?”
“So she’s serious?”
“I thought she was just playing the slacker role, but now I’m a bit looking forward to it.”
“Tomorrow at 8 PM, I’ll be waiting!”
At the same time, a private message was sent to Lin Wanwan’s phone, reading: “Don’t lose.”
Shortly after, she received a transfer notification: “1,000,000 RMB has been deposited.”
Then, she clicked to view the transfer details, with only two words in the remarks: “Keep going.”
Lin Wanwan stared at these messages for a long time, then clicked on the profile picture of the anonymous user—a blank screen, nothing at all.
She remained silent for a while, put her phone aside, and looked at the ceiling.
“Who is it…” she murmured, “such a big spender.”
There was no answer, only the moonlight outside the window, quietly streaming in.