Chapter 17

When they were on stage, no matter how tough it got, they held themselves like true idols—poised and powerful.
But the moment they stepped off and returned to the dressing room, all six of them were still shaken.
Ling Yi even burst into tears.

“Did I mess up my vocals?” he asked in a panic, rubbing his eyes.
“I couldn’t hear myself singing at all! What do I do? I’m so sorry, guys. I never should’ve joked about cracking my voice…”

“Come on, it’s fine! You sounded amazing—seriously, that high note gave me goosebumps,” Lu Yuan said, yanking him into a hug and ruffling his hair hard.
“Fluffy lil’ hedgehog—nothing can scare you.”

“Quit messing with my hair! It took forever to style!”
Ling Yi shoved him away, his miserable face turning just in time to catch the camera from the variety crew. He quickly covered his face.
“Don’t film this! Cut it! Seriously, cut it out!”

“Cut it, cut it, this part has to go,” Jiang Miao said as he moved to hug him—only to get stopped by He Ziyan, who handed him a piece of candy.

“Stop moving around. You didn’t eat before going on stage, right? Don’t squat or sit down or you’ll get dizzy.”

Pei Tingsong, who’d been watching the drama unfold, suddenly noticed someone was missing.
He looked around and found Jue Xia sitting alone in a corner of the room.

He walked over, trying to sound casual even though he was clearly concerned.
“Hey, why’re you sitting on the floor when there’s a whole couch right there?”

Jue Xia didn’t answer, his head still lowered.

Pei hesitated, wanting to pull him up but feeling weird about it.
“What, did the sound blow out your eardrums?”
Then he reached down to tug Jue Xia’s arm—but the guy didn’t budge.

Finally, he spoke.

“My legs gave out…”

Pfft.

Pei couldn’t hold it in—he cracked up, laughing so hard he nearly doubled over.
Jue Xia looked up at him, a little annoyed.
“Is that funny to you?”

“Yeah. Totally.”
Pei squatted down in front of his deadpan face, grinning.
“You were killing it up there—leading the charge like a total boss.
I honestly thought nothing fazed you.”

His smile turned almost boyish.
“Didn’t know you got stage fright too.”

Jue Xia gave him a long stare, which just made Pei think he looked kind of adorable—like one of those aloof cats that won’t cling to you.

“Alright, enough. If the others see us, they’re gonna think I’m bullying you.”
Pei grabbed his arm and helped him up.
“If your legs are jelly, quit being stubborn. Couch is better than the floor.”

“…Thanks.”
Jue Xia sat down, heart still pounding, ears still ringing from the stage.
The whole performance had felt like walking a tightrope—one wrong move and the entire group could’ve gone down with it.

Good thing they pushed through.

The makeup artists came in to help them remove their stage looks, gushing nonstop with praise.
With the live stream still playing on a nearby laptop, the room was buzzing with chatter and energy.

On the stream, a new group was performing—but clearly lip-syncing.
They hadn’t even memorized the lyrics, and their mouthing was as stiff as bad acting.

“Ugh, more lip-syncing,” one of the makeup girls said casually as she walked over to Jue Xia with a cotton pad.
“Funny how the audio system suddenly works just fine now.”

Jue Xia sat quietly on the couch, letting her remove his eye makeup, not saying a word.

Xiao Wen chimed in, “I mean, it sucks having to go on right after you guys.
Also, Xiao Pei, your freestyle back there? I was shaking in the crowd!”

Pei Tingsong declined the help of the stylists and took a pad himself.
“What? I wasn’t lying.”

He Ziyan laughed, repeating Pei’s impromptu lyrics from earlier,
“Your little bitches love me so~”

Lu Yuan sat in front of the mirror, still fired up.
“No, no, no—that one line was legendary!
Everyone else out here faking it with ghostwriters, but that line? That line was real. Mic in hand, lip-syncing like that? Man, I nearly missed my cue ’cause of Xiao Pei. I seriously thought I was gonna get iced because of him.”

Ling Yi shook his head.
“Pei’s got zero shame. Every time he writes lyrics, it’s either self-hype or throwing shade.”

“I’ll throw shade at you next time.”

Jiang Miao added, “Well, good thing we had Pei and Ziyan’s beatboxing. Total lifesaver.”

Jue Xia had his eyes closed and didn’t chime in once, though he nodded silently as everyone spoke.
Pei Tingsong was lounging not far from him, head tilted back on the couch, lazily wiping off makeup with a cotton pad while occasionally throwing in punchlines to match He Ziyan’s jokes.

The dressing room was noisy—but not stage-level noisy.
Jue Xia’s mind was filled with one thing: Pei Tingsong’s laugh.
The way he delivered that freestyle. That wild, fearless energy—“not even a rookie bull would charge like that” didn’t do it justice.
Jue Xia wasn’t sure if he’d fallen into some psychological trap like the suspension bridge effect, but he was moved, in that moment, by how Pei jumped in and owned the rap.

Time passed. No more hiccups.
The livestream hosts were back on script, smoothly rolling through their lines.

Inside Jue Xia, the little ticking clock that always guided him kept counting down—steady as always, untethered and unbothered.
Tick… tick… tick… ten, nine, eight, seven—

“小裴一會兒請客。”
“Xiao Pei’s buying us food later.”

Pei Tingsong casually tossed his used cotton pad at He Ziyan.
“Says who? I’m the gege and the wallet?”

“You’re the gege and the warlord, clearly.
That final walk of yours? Zero emotion. You looked ready to drag us into a street fight.”

Pei chuckled, eyes closed.
“Call me gege nicely and maybe I’ll—”

Then a quiet voice cut him off, low and calm.

“New Year’s Eve has arrived.”

The livestream speakers echoed with the MC’s countdown, signaling the start of the midnight special.
Loud, festive performances burst into the room, demanding attention and trying to drag them all into the revelry.

But Pei could only hear one voice.

He blinked through the sting of makeup remover and looked toward Jue Xia—barefaced, eyes still shut, but with a softness that was rare.
No iciness. Just a gentle warmth.

“Happy birthday,” Jue Xia said softly.

For once, Pei Tingsong froze.

The cotton pad in his hand crumpled as his grip tightened.
His sharp tongue failed him. His usual comebacks vanished.
All that remained was his heightened sense of hearing.

He’d heard Jue Xia loud and clear. And the words echoed in his head.

“…Thanks.”

He regretted it the second it left his mouth.
God, that was so lame. So not cool. He really just let Jue Xia short-circuit his brain and got all dopey, blurting out “thanks” like a dumbass.

It had to be the performance. That had drained him to the core.

Jue Xia added calmly, “You might not even celebrate the lunar birthday.”

Actually… maybe he should.
They were all Chinese, after all. Pei muttered to himself in his head.

Yeah. Why shouldn’t I celebrate my lunar birthday?

Pei Tingsong:
“Actually…”

“Wait—today’s Pei’s birthday?!”
Ling Yi’s voice boomed across the room, cutting off whatever Pei Tingsong had been about to say back to Jue Xia.
That main vocal energy kicked in instantly, rallying everyone around him and turning a quiet, private moment into a full-blown celebration.

Jiang Miao checked the time.
“Hey, perfect timing. Let’s go grab something good to eat after this. We’ll celebrate together.”

“Hotpot!” Ling Yi shouted.

“Grilled skewers!” Lu Yuan joined in.

“I vote for drinks,” He Ziyan raised a hand. “Captain, I need alcohol.”

Meanwhile, Jue Xia, the one who started all of this, quietly stepped back, letting the crowd take over.
He stood on the sidelines, just smiling, saying nothing more.

Pei Tingsong was definitely happy—but there was a lump stuck in his chest.
Getting cut off like that, right when he had something to say… it sucked.
So this was what it felt like to be intercepted mid-confession.

That’s when their manager, Cheng Qiang, burst into the room, breathless and excited.
“You guys are trending again!”

“No way?”
Lu Yuan immediately pulled out his burner account, opened Weibo, and refreshed his feed—only to see entertainment bloggers reposting clips of their live performance.

[@浪里個浪: Did y’all catch Kaleido’s (thanks to the comments for the name) fully live set just now?! Damn! Blew my mind! I did a backflip off my bed like a freakin’ tiger—turned a full-blown tech failure into a party. Check it out! High-energy from 00:32. But seriously, screw that platform’s trash audio setup. How do you mess up a venue this big?]

[@cpa-or-bust: Just watched it! The main vocal in the gray shirt started singing and I got full-body chills. All six of them with hand-held mics? Unreal. Are they all vocal line?!]

[@smartcookie: Not gonna lie, I thought their previous trending moments were all marketing hype and I wasn’t buying it—but okay. I admit it. That was fire.
PS: Yunshi’s tech is still garbage as always.]

[@woxiaole: Sure, maybe their marketing’s extra—but this level of live performance? That’s idol industry top tier. Some groups can’t even lip-sync on beat.]

[@ihavethehotsforpower: I don’t even follow boy groups but this performance?? So intense! That guy with the red eyeliner—his reflexes were insane.]

[@weekendplease: I honestly thought this group was irrelevant (no offense, fans), only knew them from CP rumors and pretty faces. But now? Total ACE material. That moment when he took out the earpiece? Iconic. Rap line was insane too—the flow was smooth af. Performing live with no monitors and still staying on pitch, keeping rhythm, and delivering stage presence? Unheard of. Maybe the broken sound system was a blessing in disguise.]

[@inheritmyloans: Bro, they might not be irrelevant anymore after tonight. Just look at the comment volume. Trending everywhere.
Conspiracy theory: Was the audio “accident” staged to avoid going viral too fast?]

[@silentlaughs replied: If that was an attempt to contain the hype, it failed spectacularly and just made it blow up harder LOL.
Also, I’ve claimed the soft-smile blue-haired dancer. His energy and control? Insane. And the guy with the sleepy fox eyes? TOO SWEET.]

[@myunderratedfaves: As a fan, I’m honestly ashamed. Casual viewers are hyping them better than we ever did. I’m just gonna like every comment in silence.]

[@KKKkkk: Why is no one talking about the glasses-wearing rapper?? He was fire. That mic-grab right into the camera shot straight through my screen. His beatbox had soul.]

[@grapegrower replied: That’s Pei Tingsong—19 years old, our in-house “suit thug” and literal wolf pup. Youngest in the group, and he wrote the lyrics for that track too!
Also, he freestyle-changed the lyrics live, the original was way tamer lol.]

[@KKKkkk replied: He’s the youngest?! I thought he was the leader! No wonder those lyrics felt like a roast of the whole show. Dude went full diss mode on a broken mic. Respect.]

[@didmyfavpostapic: Didn’t some other group just call this one a “leftover lineup”? Joke’s on them. Every single member is basically a tragic overpowered anime character.]

Eventually, even Yunshi TV’s official Weibo posted Kaleido’s full-stage clip.
The video blew up fast, shared by all the big accounts, becoming the first truly viral live performance of the night.

On Bilibili, fan editors quickly uploaded comparison videos—lining Kaleido’s raw, a cappella vocals against their studio track.
The side-by-side footage made it to the front page within hours.

Overnight, the Weibo follower count for all six of them doubled—and for Fang Juexia and Pei Tingsong, the surge was especially dramatic, rocketing them to the top of fandom attention as the new breakout stars.

But these carefree boys couldn’t have cared less. They were too busy throwing a birthday bash for their youngest member. They partied hard with food, drinks, and a night of karaoke, only dragging themselves back to the dorm at dawn. Since they didn’t have any scheduled activities the next day, they all passed out and slept through the afternoon.

None of them realized the performance had sparked an online tidal wave.

Yunshi Network’s production team was bombarded by criticism, to the point where they had no choice but to issue a public apology, releasing an official statement regarding the earlier stage malfunction. The next day, hashtags like #StarmapTalentSearch and #KaleidoMemberBackstories trended on the hot search list.

Marketing accounts jumped on the hype and dug up early footage and photos from before their debut—competition clips of Lu Yuan and Ling Yi, videos of He Ziyan’s bar performances, even a livestream recording of Jiang Miao playing the guzheng. Naturally, they also unearthed old campus gossip threads about Fang Juexia being voted the “campus heartthrob” and the hot rumors from his old company, where he was once considered a sure bet for debut.

The only one still wrapped in mystery was Pei Tingsong. Anything posted about him got deleted almost instantly.

One blogger, claiming to be an insider, uploaded a U.S. university admission list with Pei Tingsong’s name circled in red. They painted a vivid tale of his prestigious family background, his decision to drop out without permission, getting beaten so badly by his father for sneaking off to perform underground that he ended up hospitalized—only to escape the hospital in a bold act of rebellion. But that post vanished too, and even the blogger’s account got permanently banned.

The power of gossip is endless.

Netizens became even more intrigued by this bizarre group—it seemed like every one of them had their own dramatic backstory, like six protagonists from entirely different genres.

The “Beautiful, Strong, Tragic” Six—they lived up to the name.