On the morning of the event day, when Ran Jiu woke up at 6 a.m., the door to Rong Ting’s room was still tightly shut. She had tucked the ticket under the mask box on the shoe rack.
By the afternoon, they had applied light makeup and boarded a dedicated car to the U University gymnasium.
The front was packed with people, while they prepared backstage.
Since the event was being livestreamed, participants could choose whether to show their faces or not. As voice acting is primarily a behind-the-scenes profession, it didn’t affect the selection of talented voices by the sponsoring film and television companies. The voice actors were backstage familiarizing themselves with the script, testing equipment, and warming up their voices.
Ran Jiu sat there like a statue, occasionally glancing at her watch, wondering whether the rabbit had seen the ticket she left on the table and whether she would come.
Wei Feng handed her a bottle of room-temperature water. “Why do I feel like you’re spacing out?”
Ran Jiu raised an eyebrow to glance at him.
“You’re not even rehearsing your lines.”
Ran Jiu replied, “I’ve memorized them.”
Wei Feng muttered an expletive in his mind.
Ran Jiu continued to explain, “I practiced by memorizing legal codes.”
It was an explanation that didn’t quite explain anything, yet perfectly illustrated what it meant to show off.
Wei Feng thought: If you keep talking like this, I’ll seriously suspect you dropped out of school just to avoid studying.
Just as he hesitated to ask something else, the front desk notified them that they were the next group and needed to prepare quickly.
Ran Jiu put on her mask and walked from the shadows backstage toward the bright lights ahead.
Rong Ting’s ticket only allowed her to stand in the outer area. Inside, the host’s voice echoed through the spacious venue, but with the crowd’s noise and the reverberations from the speakers, she couldn’t hear the front clearly.
Only three of the five classmates who had managed to get tickets showed up; the other two had last-minute issues and sold their tickets at a low price.
As one of the lucky ones who snagged a ticket, Zhang Ling stood beside her, chattering nonstop: “Junior, are you into the voice acting scene too? My idol’s voice is absolutely stunning. You know, every time he speaks, I want to record it and listen to it over and over again at night.”
“See that girl with pink hair? That’s Mosquito Meow. She’s been doing cartoon voice acting for a long time. She uploaded electronic music for hot-blooded anime on 5sing before—it’s super explosive! Oh, look, she’s about to speak. So good!”
“And that guy wearing the skull cap—I didn’t recognize him at first. He’s the voice actor for the male lead in the recent hit drama ‘Cloud Thorns.’ Have you heard his bubble voice? It’s absolutely incredible.”
Zhang Ling was undoubtedly a seasoned fan, able to identify everyone on sight. She could recognize those showing their faces instantly, and even those wearing masks—she could tell who they were just by their voices.
Rong Ting listened with a smile but didn’t see the person she was hoping for appear on stage.
After a short intermission, Zhang Ling mentioned that the next performers might be from a new studio being promoted this year. Rong Ting’s gaze instinctively shifted to the stage.
Once the warm-up acts were over, it was Ran Jiu’s group’s turn to perform. Ran Jiu chose a black butterfly mask. She dressed simply, wearing a gray chiffon T-shirt with black and white patterns underneath and a black jacket over it. Yet, the moment she stepped on stage, she drew gasps and cheers from the fans below.
“Her legs!”
“Ahhh, those legs are unreal!”
“Turns out I’m not just obsessed with Jiu Tu’s voice—I’m obsessed with her legs too!”
“Her legs are etched right into my heart.”
Within just a minute, waves of cheers had swept through the crowd. When Ran Jiu picked up the microphone, the entire venue fell silent.
Rong Ting saw the person on stage—her roommate who was usually so close to her every day—yet suddenly felt that she seemed distant, swept away by the applause.
On stage with Ran Jiu was Li Weilin, a newcomer from their studio. The two performed a segment from a foreign yuri drama, telling a story of love and abandonment. The “uke” (receiving character) suffered from emotional deficiency disorder. After repeated arguments with the “seme” (pursuing character), she became anxious and developed hysteria. The seme remained steadfastly loyal, ultimately guiding the uke toward healing.
As the script’s biggest twist concluded, Ran Jiu’s character Una weakly called out Rein’s name in the darkness, unable to move. The accumulated emotions were like a time bomb, pinning the audience in place, almost breathless.
Ran Jiu stood quietly enveloped in the stage’s shadows, her expression unchanging, almost blending into the backdrop.
It had to be said—even without the enhancement of a live performance, this was an auditory feast.
Beside her, Zhang Ling was nearly going crazy: “Damn, are the new generation in the voice acting circle this amazing now? The girl on stage is so cool! If I remember correctly, several niche yuri dramas only blew up after she voiced them. Have you heard of the ‘ultimate beauty seme voice’? Yeah, that’s Jiu Tu!”
Rong Ting stared unblinkingly at the stage and replied vaguely, “Hmm.”
“Jiu Tu’s studio isn’t big, and they’re all newcomers, but she’s been on a strong rise these past two years. Apart from a low period in her first year, she’s been really impressive since. Many of her works have been sponsored by media companies.”
Rong Ting frowned again. “Hmm.”
Zhang Ling clearly didn’t realize her own chattiness and continued babbling: “Junior, do you ship couples? I think she and the girl next to her look really good together.”
That sentence seemed to prick Rong Ting suddenly, leaving her momentarily dazed. Then she looked toward the stage. Ran Jiu had a naturally cool and aloof aura—long legs in leather boots, a slender yet sharp figure, and a strikingly beautiful appearance even behind a mask.
The girl beside her wore a cat mask, her gaze occasionally falling on Ran Jiu, eyes filled with sweetness and affection, with a hint of devotion and attachment. Ran Jiu seemed to notice this gaze as well, occasionally smiling back.
That smile carried a touch of helplessness yet also a hint of indulgence, making Zhang Ling ship them even harder. “Pink and green pairings tend to make great couples too! Jiu Tu has that cool, mature older sister vibe, but she’s so slim. The girl next to her seems like the cute, loli type. Their chemistry in that last segment was amazing—they’re absolutely perfect together…”
Not just Zhang Ling—several other girls nearby started whispering about them too, and Zhang Ling occasionally chimed in when she overheard.
Rong Ting suddenly felt a bit downcast and tired. She told Zhang Ling to keep watching—she wanted to go back and catch up on sleep.
Zhang Ling was even a little surprised: “Junior, we worked so hard to get these tickets! What if you end up joining the circle too? Better to secure a spot early! Opportunities like this are rare, you know!”
Never mind the future. Rong Ting clutched the two damp tickets in her pocket, feeling like the two people on stage were just too glaring.
She slipped out quietly just as the following segment reached another climax.
The organizers strongly promoted newcomer studios, so next up was a Q&A session. Fans went wild, throwing questions at Ran Jiu. The screen randomly selected a few—the first ones were fairly normal.
Q: “How did Jiu Da get her stage name?”
Ran Jiu: “It’s related to my real name, and also because I enjoy trying various types of alcohol.”
The people present took the opportunity to ask casually if her name contained the character for “alcohol.” Ran Jiu nodded but didn’t elaborate further.
Then, the screen displayed the second question. Q: “Jiu Da’s voice has a clear, almost cold quality. Was it always like this, or did it develop through long-term practice?”
Ran Jiu picked up the microphone, opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything.
Wei Feng, acting as the temporary PR, quickly stepped in to smooth things over. “Everyone says she has a cool, dominant female voice—of course, that comes from long-term practice. At first, our studio couldn’t get any decent projects; we were either taking minor supporting roles or small advertisements. Luckily, Xiao Jiu’s voice has a premium quality, otherwise we’d only be able to take cheap gigs.”
The crowd finally let the question go, and the screen showed the third Q: “Jiu Da previously recorded a voiceover for a recipe. So, where is Jiu Da’s hometown, and are there any hometown dishes you’d recommend?”
Ran Jiu thought for a moment. “The cuisine in my hometown is quite limited; there’s nothing I can really recommend. But you can see beautiful lakes and prayer flags there.”
Excited exclamations rose from the audience, with some guessing a broad location. When asked for specifics, Ran Jiu smiled and said it was a secret.
For the final question, the organizers likely wanted to stir things up and deliberately chose a tricky one. An image appeared on the screen showing two glowing fiber lights tangled together—one straight, one curved. They asked which one she preferred.
Ran Jiu: “What’s the difference?”
The host hinted, “One is straight, the other is curved.”
Ran Jiu often recorded audio dramas. During a period when yuri-themed content was popular, she exclusively voiced dominant roles, which attracted a small group of fans at the time. Later, curious people would often ask in the comments about her sexual orientation, but she never gave a direct answer.
They had encountered such questions before during public script readings, and she always deflected them effortlessly. Even Wei Feng felt that Ran Jiu’s mind wasn’t focused on such matters—to her, it was no big deal.
Unexpectedly, she hesitated for a moment. “Undecided for now.”
This answer sparked endless speculation, and the situation got out of control. Wei Feng quickly grabbed the microphone. “Hey, hey, there’s still a living person here! Show some love for the adorable Wei Wei, and you can ask me questions too.”
Later, when Wei Feng couldn’t hold out either, they bowed and exited the stage amid the crowd’s cheers.
Wei Feng took off his mask, fanning the sweat on his face. “What’s going on with you? You weren’t like this before.”
Ran Jiu explained calmly, “Creating hype.”
Wei Feng was taken aback. Ran Jiu was the most dedicated voice actor in their studio, usually straightforward and not one for such tactics. This truly surprised him. He was speechless for a while, his hand hovering awkwardly without patting her shoulder. He chuckled awkwardly. “Well, you’ve finally caught on.”
This celebration was essentially an event for major studios to attract sponsors and for smaller studios to gain exposure. After their presentation, Ran Jiu and her team didn’t have high expectations.
Unexpectedly, several studios approached them. Seeing that Ran Jiu was tired, Wei Feng took the initiative to handle the negotiations. Li Weilin, who loved socializing, felt a bit down when Ran Jiu didn’t talk much to her. Coincidentally, some of her fans were around, so she went to meet them.
Ran Jiu removed her mask, tidied her clothes, put on a face mask and a baseball cap, and was just about to leave.
Unexpectedly, as she was leaving, she was stopped by an unfamiliar agent—someone she knew, or rather, someone her studio and the voice acting community were familiar with.
The agent was named Luo Sun. The voice actors under his management were considered minor celebrities in the voice acting world, the most famous among them being “Ting,” a voice actor who debuted by voicing the male lead in BL dramas. Starting from audio dramas, he now mostly collaborated on film and television projects, often voicing important roles like the male lead or second male lead. After the TV dramas he worked on became popular, his fame soared, and his value skyrocketed.
At that time, voice acting had not yet formed a complete professional ecosystem, and most voice actors didn’t have agents. Luo Sun’s methods were impressive, and he later signed a few more voice actors, all of whom he promoted quite well. For a while, many newcomers in the voice acting circle wanted to join him.
However, rumors about his character weren’t great. Not long ago, an artist from his company exposed that this agent used signed merchandise as bait and engaged in many shady practices involving hidden rules.
Although it was unclear whether these rumors were true, his oily speech on many shows and livestreams, as well as his ambiguous relationships with the artists under him, greatly diminished public goodwill.
This sharp-faced, oily-skinned man blocked Ran Jiu’s path. Even the brand-new polo shirt he wore couldn’t hide the fat on his belly. He leisurely handed her a business card: “Hello, Jiu Tu. Have you heard of Tianhai Company? Would you like to join me?”
Ran Jiu caught a whiff of the pungent cigarette smoke on him and instinctively stepped back, her expression still cold. “Sorry, I’m not interested for now.”
Luo Sun was clearly displeased and tried to persist.
Ran Jiu frowned slightly and dodged his outstretched arm. “If you’re interested in collaborating, you can contact our studio’s manager, Xiao Zhi.”
“Even if the deal doesn’t go through, we can still be friends. Let’s chat first.” Luo Sun’s gaze shifted slightly with ill intent.
Ran Jiu felt a chill run down her spine.
The next moment, someone stepped in front of her.
Rong Ting, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, pushed Luo Sun aside and spoke in a crisp, official tone: “Hello, sir. You can’t do this. You should pursue celebrities rationally and not act like a sasaeng fan.”
Sir?
Ran Jiu was taken aback and almost laughed. What kind of celebrity was she? Luo Sun would probably be furious at being called a sasaeng fan.
Sure enough, Luo Sun, who had just regained his balance, frowned angrily and amusedly. “Where did this kid come from? I’m here to discuss business with her.”
Rong Ting was actually terrified—she had never argued with anyone before. Her palms were sweaty, but she deliberately raised her voice. “When others discuss business, they look up. Why are you looking down?”
The surrounding people glanced over subtly, and Luo Sun, somewhat wary, lowered his voice. “Don’t make a scene. You kids might not care about face, but I do.”
Seeing him finally back down, Rong Ting sneered. “Oh, kids don’t need face, so someone your age doesn’t need it either, huh?”
After a heated exchange, Luo Sun stormed off in frustration.
Rong Ting, who had been fierce just moments ago, suddenly deflated, as if retreating back into her socially anxious shell. She turned around, and Ran Jiu looked down at her with lowered lashes.
She tentatively called out, “Jiu Jiu?”
There was a slight pause between the two syllables, as if Rong Ting was uncertain. She waved her hand at Ran Jiu.
Ran Jiu’s voice was muffled under her mask. “I’m not wearing a mask.”
Rong Ting said, “I knew it was you as soon as I heard your voice.” She rubbed her nose—actually, it was also the long legs and the striking hair color.
Ran Jiu had too many distinctive features; she was truly one of a kind.
Ran Jiu remained silent, so Rong Ting tried calling her again, “Jiu Jiu.”
The combination of the falling tone and the level tone gave it a cute, endearing feel, which seemed at odds with the cool, aloof person before her. Yet Rong Ting found herself somewhat addicted to it.
Ran Jiu suddenly remembered that using reduplicated words was often a term of endearment. Frowning, she asked, “What about the tickets I left for you?”
The person across from her seemed to snap out of a daze, rummaged in her pocket, and pulled out two pieces of stiff paper.
One was a torn half-ticket—she had bought it from a classmate at a discounted “friendship price,” and after being checked at the entrance, only the stub remained.
The other was intact but slightly crumpled—the one Ran Jiu had left for her on the shoe cabinet that morning.