The audition rules were simple: each contestant performed a self-chosen piece for three minutes, and the five judges voted by raising or not raising their placards.
Three votes meant passing; two votes or fewer meant elimination.
Contestants who passed the preliminary screening received a three-thousand-yuan prize, and the prize money doubled with each round after officially advancing.
For entertainment value—and to gauge each contestant’s popularity—the production team also set up a voting channel for contestants in the livestream room.
Even though popularity votes didn’t count toward scores during the auditions, they still attracted a huge crowd of eager participants.
At two in the afternoon, the livestream officially began.
The LED screen in the square lit up, broadcasting the live feed, with the camera pointed at the entrance of the concert hall.
Comments scrolled down the right side of the screen like a waterfall, so fast they were almost unreadable.
“It’s starting, it’s starting! The Shangjing Daxue stop is finally underway!”
“Heard the contestants here have both looks and talent? Counting down.”
“The production team went all out this time—but are the contestants actually any good?”
The comments flew by in a frenzy, and the online viewer count jumped to six digits.
Inside the concert hall, contestants took the stage one by one in draw order.
The first few performances were unremarkable, and the judges’ reactions were equally flat.
One associate director on the judging panel yawned, while the producer beside him looked down at his phone.
But the livestream’s popularity kept climbing.
Not because of the contestants, but because of the two names repeatedly flooding the comments—Shen Qinghuan and Bai Anqi.
“Why hasn’t that prodigy gone on yet? I’m only here for her.”
“Where’s Bai Anqi? Heard she works really hard—want to see her in person.”
“Stop spamming the comments, it’s not her turn yet.”
In the green room, a staff member came in with a list, calling numbers.
“Next up, Bai Anqi, please get ready.”
Bai Anqi rose from her corner in the room, looking nervous, and smoothed out her skirt.
Before heading out, she glanced at Shen Qinghuan by the window.
Shen Qinghuan was looking down, tuning her strings. Sunlight fell on the side of her face, her raven-feather lashes casting a faint shadow beneath her eyes.
Bai Anqi withdrew her gaze and pushed the door open.
Out in the square in front of the concert hall, Lin Chen had claimed a front-row spot early on.
He wore a white shirt today, clean and fresh, strikingly conspicuous in the crowd.
Girls nearby stole glances at him several times, whispering, “Isn’t that Lin Chen? He’s even more handsome in person than in the videos.”
Lin Chen ignored the stares, his eyes fixed on the exit of the concert hall.
The moment Bai Anqi stepped out, his body leaned forward slightly.
The camera in the square caught this scene.
In the livestream, the comments immediately changed direction.
“Who’s that guy? So handsome!”
“That’s Lin Chen. Did you all forget the cyberbullying incident? He’s the one who asked Shen Qinghuan to give up her spot.”
“Ah… so it’s him. Good-looking, but his character…”
“Wait, he’s here to cheer for Bai Anqi today, right? Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with being good to the person you like.”
“Agreed. Matters of the heart are hard for outsiders to judge.”
The shot cut to Bai Anqi walking onto the stage. The spotlight hit her—she was in a white dress, long hair draped over her shoulders.
The host came up to her, holding out the microphone.
“Anqi, how are you feeling today? Nervous?”
Bai Anqi took the microphone, head lowered, silent for a second. When she looked up again, her eyes were already slightly red.
“A little nervous.” Her voice was soft, carrying just the right touch of a tremble. “I know my opponent is amazing. I just want to try my best so I have no regrets.”
The comment section exploded.
“Waaah, my heart aches for her! Her eyes are red and she’s holding back tears.”
“This is what ordinary people really look like. Who wouldn’t be nervous facing a genius?”
“Girls who work hard are the most beautiful! Go, Anqi!”
“Whatever the result, you’re already amazing!”
On the popularity voting channel for the auditions, Bai Anqi’s vote count began to jump rapidly, climbing from hundreds to thousands, the numbers flipping at lightning speed.
At the judges’ table, deputy director Jiang Rong frowned slightly.
She was in her forties, wearing a sharply tailored navy suit with a pair of simple pearl studs on her earlobes—the whole picture of competence and understatement.
Twenty years in the industry, working her way up from script supervisor to deputy director, Jiang Rong had seen every kind of contestant, celebrities and amateurs alike.
She glanced at the red-eyed girl on stage, then at the audience below holding up their phones to take pictures, and said nothing.
The young executive director beside her leaned in and whispered, “Director Jiang, this contestant is trending hard. The comments are all about her.”
Jiang Rong picked up the contestant file on the table and flipped through it. “Her eyes went red before she even started playing. Her ability to handle pressure is far too weak.”
The camera cut back to the waiting room.
The host pushed the door open and found Shen Qinghuan.
“Qinghuan, you’re about to go on stage. Is there anything you’d like to say to the audience?”
Shen Qinghuan looked up, the camera focused on her face. She didn’t force a smile, nor did she feign nervousness—she simply looked at the camera calmly.
“When I step on that stage, I’ll let my skill do the talking.”
The livestream comments froze for a moment, then erupted.
“So cocky! I love it!”
“What does ‘let my skill do the talking’ mean? Is she throwing shade at Bai Anqi for having no skill?”
“Are you all overthinking it? She was just stating her approach to the competition.”
“So cold, zero warmth. Anqi is way more lovable.”
“I think it’s pretty cool. A genius should act like a genius—why should she have to play the pity card?”
The comments split into two camps, arguing fiercely.
On the popularity voting channel, Bai Anqi’s votes still led. Shen Qinghuan’s votes were rising too, but noticeably slower.
In a villa district in Shangjing, inside a private beauty room, Su You turned her phone volume up to maximum, frowning as she read the comments.
Beside her, Gu Nian sat expressionless, urging her on, “I still have to go soak in the hot springs. What’s taking you so long?”
Su You’s fingers flew across the screen as she typed in the comment box:
“Go, Shen Qinghuan!”
Then, thinking it sounded too sappy, she deleted it and typed another: “A genius is a genius. No need to play the pity card.”
Then she flipped her phone face-down onto her lap.
“So annoying,” Su You muttered under her breath.
Gu Nian pretended not to know what she’d been looking at.
Inside the concert hall, the five judges took their seats.
The head director hadn’t come to the auditions, so deputy director Jiang Rong sat in the middle, with the producer on her left and a young man in sunglasses on her right.
The staff whispered among themselves.
“That’s the music consultant specially invited by the production team, right? I heard his appearance fee is three times everyone else’s combined.”
“The one whose single sold over ten million copies? Isn’t he the one who never does variety shows? Why would he come be a judge at our auditions?”
“Who knows? Supposedly, after reading the contestants’ profiles, he volunteered to come.”
The man leaned back in his chair, wearing a black shirt made of expensive fabric.
Sunglasses covered most of his face, revealing only a superior jawline and a pair of thin lips, without a trace of expression.
A thermos sat beside him; from the moment he sat down, he hadn’t said a single word.
Jiang Rong glanced at him sideways, hesitating to speak.
On stage, Bai Anqi’s performance was nearing its end.
Her song choice was clever—instead of attempting those technically demanding showpieces, she had chosen a gentle, lyrical slow piece.
She had practiced day and night for this; her intonation had no major problems, and her emotional delivery was reasonably invested. The whole piece came across as smooth and steady.
At the judges’ table, another assistant director surnamed He was the first to raise his sign, followed by the music director, and then the producer.
Three votes.
Bai Anqi’s eyes grew even redder. As the piece ended, she bowed deeply to the judges’ table, then bowed again to the camera.
The bullet comments surged with another wave of sympathy.
Jiang Rong hesitated for a few seconds, but ultimately did not raise her sign.
It wasn’t that she thought Bai Anqi played poorly, but with her professional musician’s eye, this level was still some distance away from qualifying.
Still, three votes were already enough to pass the auditions, so her opinion no longer mattered.