Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

The first lesson was more difficult than He Xu had imagined.

It's not technically difficult.

He actually understood all of Zhou Wei's methods: lowering the breath, supporting the diaphragm, and closing the vocal cords—these are the foundations of vocal training.

The difficulty is that his body has already gotten used to "not singing".

Since injuring his throat, he has hardly sung a word while dancing for the past four years.

He would hum a few lines occasionally, but it was always in a low, casual voice, without any need for breath support.

His vocal cords have forgotten how to vibrate steadily during strenuous exercise.

"Again," Zhou Wei's voice came from the monitor speakers, devoid of any emotion.

He Xu stood in the center of the recording studio, wearing headphones, with a microphone in front of him.

He had been practicing for almost an hour, starting with the most basic breathing exercises—deep inhalation, slow exhalation, and maintaining the continuity of his breath.

Then comes the practice with movements.

The simplest movement is not dancing, but simply stepping in place.

"Sing 'ah' while stepping forward—keep the volume steady and don't stop breathing," Zhou Wei said.

He Xu did as instructed.

"ah--"

The sound coming from the microphone was steady at first, but it started to fluctuate on the tenth step, and became noticeably shaky on the fifteenth step.

"Again."

"ah--"

"Again."

"ah--"

"Again."

Once, twice, three times, four times.

By the fifth time, He Xu's "ah" finally stabilized, with almost no fluctuation in volume from the first sound to the last.

Zhou Wei took off his headphones and rubbed his ears.

"That's enough," he said. "Rest for five minutes, then we'll get to the exercises."

He Xu took off his headphones, took two gulps of water, and felt a slight sting as the water slid down his throat.

"Don't drink too much," Zhou Wei's voice came from the monitoring room. "Drinking a lot of water when your throat is congested is actually bad. Take small sips."

He Xu put down the water bottle and licked his lips.

"You've trained in vocal music before?" Zhou Wei flipped through the records on his tablet without looking up. "When you were doing your breathing exercises just now, you had a solid foundation in abdominal breathing."

He Xu did not answer immediately.

He looked at his reflection in the recording studio glass and remained silent for two seconds.

"I learned it for a few years when I was a kid," he said. "But I stopped singing it later."

Zhou Wei looked up at him.

Why?

"Dancing is more interesting than singing."

Zhou Wei stared at him for two seconds without saying a word, but his gaze carried a scrutinizing quality as if to say, "Are you kidding me?"

He Xu ignored him, put his headphones back on, and stood in front of the microphone.

"Next," he said.

Zhou Wei looked away and tapped a few times on the tablet.

"Next, sing and dance." His voice came through the monitor speakers. "You don't need to do the whole dance, just the chorus, but the movements can't be simplified; they have to be exactly the same as on stage."

He Xu frowned.

"I can't jump out of here," he said.

"No need to jump away." Zhou Wei's tone was calm. "You just need to let me hear your voice—just make the move. You can skip the positioning."

He Xu took a deep breath and stood still in the center of the recording studio.

Zhou Wei pressed play, and the chorus accompaniment of "Blade" poured out of the speakers.

He Xu moved.

He has ingrained the movements of the chorus into his very bones—shoulders down, core engaged, body springing off the ground, spinning in the air, and landing on one knee.

At that moment, he spoke.

"We are the Blade—"

The sound coming from the microphone was more stable than during the rehearsal, but there were still noticeable fluctuations.

In the instant he turned, his breath was interrupted by the movement, and his voice had a slight pause.

The chorus continues.

"cut through the dark——"

Upon landing, his breath was steady this time, but his voice was noticeably strained, as if something was stuck in his throat.

The last sentence.

"We are the light—"

Barely, I managed to hold on.

The accompaniment has ended.

He Xu stood there, panting, his chest heaving violently.

Zhou Wei's voice came through the monitor speakers: "You're consciously controlling your breath, that's progress. But when you switch between high-intensity movements, you unconsciously hold your breath, and your voice stops."

"Let's do it one more time."

Second time.

The third time.

Fourth time.

He Xu danced and sang over and over again.

Zhou Wei listened again and again, pointing out the problems each time.

"Don't hold your breath when you twist your body."

"Your breath dissipated prematurely the moment you landed."

"For the last sentence, don't raise your voice; lower it."

By the fifth take, He Xu's voice had started to protest.

With each line I sang, a dull pain shot through my throat.

But he didn't stop.

The fifth time.

The sixth time.

The seventh time.

Zhou Wei finally pressed pause.

"That's enough." His voice came from the monitor speakers, a little softer than before. "That's enough for today."

He Xu took off his headphones and leaned against the wall.

He could no longer speak.

Zhou Wei walked out of the listening room, holding a glass of honey water, and handed it to him.

He Xu took it and drank a small sip.

The warm water slid down my throat, and the stinging sensation became more pronounced.

"We'll continue tomorrow night at eight o'clock," Zhou Wei said.

He Xu glanced at him and nodded.

Zhou Wei watched him walk out, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

Three days of breathing training is neither a long nor a short time.

He Xu would appear at the recording studio at 8 p.m. every night, and Zhou Wei would already be waiting inside.

On the first day, we practiced for a full two hours.

He Xu's voice went from still being able to make a breathy sound to completely losing it.

The next day, Zhou Wei adjusted the training plan—reducing exercises involving movement and increasing the proportion of basic breathing training.

"Your vocal cords need rest," he said. "You can't keep using them."

He Xu did not refute.

That night, he practiced in the recording studio for an hour and a half. His voice wasn't completely ruined like the day before, but it still hurt when he spoke.

The third day, the last day before the performance.

The technical rehearsal that morning was already grueling enough, so Zhou Wei didn't let him practice for too long, only an hour.

On the last chorus, He Xu sang it from beginning to end, his voice steady.

Although it was light, it did not break.

Although he was mute, every word was clearly identifiable.

Zhou Wei took off his headphones and remained silent for a long time in the monitoring room.

Then he pressed the intercom button and said two words: "Okay."

He Xu took off his headphones, leaned against the wall, and took a big gulp of warm water.

"Go on stage tomorrow, just keep this style." Zhou Wei walked out of the monitoring room, holding a tablet in his hand. "You don't need to sing very loudly, you don't need to compete with Lu Yiming and the others in volume. Just keep your voice steady, that's enough."

He Xu nodded.

Zhou Wei looked at him, his lips moved, and he said something unusually soft: "I don't know the details of your voice problem, but you've been practicing very hard these past three days."

He Xu raised an eyebrow.

"So?" he asked.

"So," Zhou Wei's voice returned to its usual calm, "do your best tomorrow, don't make me feel like these three days of hard work have been wasted."

He Xu smiled.

"Don't worry," he said, "I won't let you waste your time."

-

On the day of the performance.

At seven o'clock in the morning, the base was already in a complete flurry of activity.

The dressing room was brightly lit, with dozens of makeup artists working at the same time. The sounds of powder puffs, brushes, and hair dryers mingled together, like some kind of noisy symphony.

He Xu sat in front of the dressing table, her face reflected in the mirror with little expression.

The makeup artist was a young girl, holding a foundation brush and gently sweeping it across his face.

"Your skin is so beautiful," she whispered. "What skincare products do you usually use?"

"Facial cleanser," He Xu said.

"Just facial cleanser?"

"Um."

The makeup artist opened her mouth, but swallowed the rest of her words.

In the seat next to him, Li Bufan was having his head pressed down by a makeup artist to apply foundation. His dirty orange hair was pinned to one side with a hair clip, revealing his smooth forehead.

"Brother He Xu, Brother He Xu," he tilted his head to look at He Xu, "Are you nervous?"

"I'm not nervous."

"You're lying," Li Bufan said. "Who wouldn't be nervous at a time like this? My hands were shaking."

As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, his fingers indeed trembling slightly.

He Xu glanced at it but didn't reply.

"Do you think we'll win today?" Li Bufan asked again, his voice carrying a deliberate air of ease, as if he were encouraging himself.

"have no idea."

"I think your group has a better chance of winning." Li Bufan's voice became more serious. "With you and Wang Yijun, your dance will definitely be better than Group B's. As for our group... well, I don't know."

He Xu glanced at him.

"Don't limit yourself," he said. "Thinking about these things before you take the stage is useless."

Li Bufan paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Brother He Xu, you know," he said with a smile, "you really have a sharp tongue, but what you say is always true."

He Xu ignored him and turned to face the mirror.

The makeup artist was already applying eyeliner to him, lightly flicking the tip of the pencil at the outer corner of his eye to create a clean, sharp arc.

He Xu looked at his face in the mirror and suddenly felt a little unfamiliar.

He had seen this face for twenty-four years, but now, after being redrawn with foundation, contouring, and eyeliner, it looked like a completely different person.

Sharper, colder, and less like himself.

"All done." The makeup artist stepped back, examined her work, and nodded in satisfaction. "Take a look, is there anything else you want to change?"

He Xu stared at himself in the mirror for two seconds.

"No," he said.

After changing into his stage costume, He Xu stood in front of the dressing mirror and tugged at his cuffs.

The stage costume, predominantly black, is sharply tailored with clean lines, and features several silver embellishments on the shoulders and waist that reflect a cool light under the lights.

Wang Yijun walked out of the dressing room next door, also dressed in all black.

His outfit was the same style as He Xu's, but in a different color—He Xu's was black with silver trim, while Wang Yijun's was black with red trim.

When the two people stand together, they look like two knives of different colors.

"How are you feeling today?" Wang Yijun asked, her tone still indifferent and cold.

"good."

"What about your throat?"

"good."

Wang Yijun glanced at him but didn't ask any more questions.

In the waiting area, the tension of waiting to go on stage grew stronger with each passing second.

Several groups had already finished their performances, and the cheers and applause from the audience came through the speakers, but they sounded muffled through the thick walls, as if there was a layer of something between them.

The staff member was squatting behind He Xu, holding the earpiece wire in his fingers, wrapping it around the back of his neck, and clipping the miniature microphone inside his collar.

"He Xu, try out the sound."

He Xu opened his mouth and said "one, two, three," his voice coming from the monitor speakers, hoarse and deep, but clear.

The staff member gave an OK sign and was about to stand up when, the moment their finger touched the headset jack, an accident occurred—

"Sizzle——————"

A sharp electrical blast exploded from the headset, blasting straight into He Xu's left ear.