Half a second later, Zhu Lianzhen saw from behind that Tan Qing had removed one side of his in-ear monitor and made some kind of expression toward the audience. Cheers followed immediately.
So it hadn’t been a mistake.
Abandoning the high note just for fanservice? Zhu Lianzhen felt a particular disdain for this kind of backwards pandering. But when it came to Tan Qing’s ability to rile up the fans, using his looks really was more effective than singing.
The performance of the title track was coming to an end, and Tan Xiao felt like her eardrums were about to burst.
She knew her brother’s fanservice skills were top-tier, but seeing fans around her fall into a near frenzy over a single wink was beyond her comprehension. She even heard someone shouting hysterically, with sobs mixed in. Was it because they hadn’t seen Tan Qing perform as an idol in so long?
“Ah, I can’t take it, I’m gonna cry. They’re just too good!” Even the fansite leader beside her was rambling incoherently. “Did you see? Did you see how pale Zhu Lianzhen’s waist was?”
So that’s what everyone had been screaming about. Too bad Tan Xiao hadn’t caught any of it. She wasn’t as sharp-eyed as the adults, and focusing on things like someone’s waist hadn’t even crossed her mind.
Another wave of screaming hit her ears as the members on stage struck their final poses in sync with the last beats of the song. At the same time, a dull thud rang out in the backing track, like a spear striking a shield.
They held their pose for over ten seconds, adjusted their breathing, and followed the instructions in their earpieces to exit the stage and change into their next set of performance outfits.
Watching their retreating figures, Xue Chun felt a spiritual emptiness, like the aftermath of a grand feast. The way they controlled the intensity of their dancing, their ability to stay vocally stable through it all—that kind of precision felt completely out of reach for him. And yet those five pulled it off flawlessly.
It wasn’t just talent or effort. The years of experience and synergy the group had built were absolutely essential too.
He clenched his fists. Remembering how he’d gone off-key and off-beat in front of Acemon, who had likely heard every detail loud and clear, brought a crushing wave of shame.
The manager said blandly, “They probably had better gear than us.”
Xue Chun unclenched his fist and shot him a cold, sideways glance.
Backstage was in total chaos. There were only a few minutes between the outfit change and the next stage entrance, and the makeup artists used every second to wipe off sweat and touch up their faces.
Zhu Lianzhen took a quick sip of water and heard Tan Qing behind him asking a staff member, “Can I get a new in-ear monitor?”
He turned to look and saw that Tan Qing had already changed into a white outfit, the defined lines of his collarbone visible from the neckline, both sexy and pristine. Zhu Lianzhen lazily withdrew his gaze, not wanting to look any longer.
“Good work, the performance was solid.” Pei Qiao rushed over after finishing her tasks, having just watched the show from the audience. “Koty, did you forget the lyrics just now?”
Koty smiled sheepishly after being called out. “It was German anyway—I changed a few lines on the spot. The fans couldn’t tell.”
“Wait till the translation comes out.” Pei Qiao was pretty sure he’d fudged it with a few curse words. “Oh right, I remember Tan Qing was supposed to hit a high note. Why didn’t you sing it?”
“My throat wasn’t in great condition,” Tan Qing replied apologetically.
Just then, the director ran over and handed him a new in-ear monitor. Tan Qing took it and thanked him.
Zhu Lianzhen suddenly had a subtle feeling that something was off.
But there wasn’t time to figure it out. After hesitating for a moment, he set down his water bottle and returned to the stage.
The second song was a slower-paced emo rock track, with few solo parts for Zhu Lianzhen and Koty. It was a chance for the other members to shine.
In his ear, Tan Qing’s deep, steady voice rang out. His enunciation was clear and powerful, with a restrained intensity beneath the surface, like something that could erupt at any moment. Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but glance over. He saw Tan Qing tilting his neck slightly back, the curve of his throat sharply defined under the snow-white stage lights. The sleeve of the arm holding the mic had slipped low, while his other hand covered the left side of his in-ear monitor.
He had just said his throat wasn’t in good condition… Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but question the truth of that excuse.
The chorus was driven by Tan Qing and Fu Rong’s high notes, while the guitar grew increasingly forceful. As the members sang to the beat, Zhu Lianzhen focused on Tan Qing’s voice—it was completely unblemished, full of penetrating power. And this was right after they’d finished a fast-paced dance track.
After the performance ended, they stayed on stage for a short interview with the host. The fans below were in a frenzy, the atmosphere teetering on the edge of chaos, so Ji Yunting stepped forward to politely ask everyone to quiet down a bit.
As the leader, he was expected to say something calm and heartfelt for the group’s comeback day. But when the mic reached his lips, his smile turned slightly awkward. “Long time no see.”
With those four understated words, it was as if a musical pause had signaled the end of Acemon’s long dormancy.
“First, we need to apologize for a few things.” His eyes sparkled as he looked out at the fans holding glowing signs in the crowd. “Two years ago, a member left Acemon. At the time, we didn’t do a good job easing everyone’s emotions, and many fans were left disappointed and heartbroken. That was our failure as idols, and we’re truly sorry.”
“Honestly, during the two years we stopped group activities, the five of us all thought Acemon was over. Being able to restart now is thanks to the care and support we received from people across the industry. We’re really grateful.”
After bowing, Ji Yunting took a deep breath and continued, “I know there are definitely fans who find it hard to get used to the five-member Acemon. That’s okay. The five of us have been together for seven years and still haven’t gotten used to each other either.”
He suddenly cracked a joke with a deadpan expression, and the fans, who had been on the verge of tears, immediately broke into laughter.
Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but curl his lips into a smile too. Out of the corner of his eye, he happened to glance at Tan Qing and noticed he was rubbing his ear again.
Ji Yunting pressed his lips together, his voice deepening. “But from now on, we don’t plan to hide anything anymore. Whether it was six members or five, whether there was harmony or conflict—every part of it is inseparable from Acemon’s history. Without any one of those experiences, we wouldn’t be who we are today. And of course, that includes all of you—”
He meant to solemnly thank the fans who had stayed with them through everything, but when he opened his mouth, he froze for a few seconds. Quickly turning his head, he whispered to Tan Qing, “What’s our fandom name again?”
“Hey!” The audience broke out in playful protest, some pretending to put away their fan gear.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ji Yunting apologized with a half-hearted grin. “Turns out sentimental stuff just isn’t my thing—better leave that kind of speech to Tan Qing next time.”
Tan Qing took his hand away from his ear and chimed in gently, “I wouldn’t have the heart to see our fans cry.”
With just that one soft line, the audience broke into smiles again.
The host asked, “Do any of the other members have something they’d like to say to everyone?”
Ji Yunting passed the mic around, but the members all politely declined, so he simply shoved it into Koty’s hands. Koty was stunned for a moment, then gestured toward Fu Rong, trying to give him more screen time.
“You’ve got nothing to say?” Fu Rong raised an eyebrow. “This is your golden opportunity to get cyberbullied.”
Cold sweat broke out on Koty’s back. He shook his head vigorously in silence, his panicked expression making the fans laugh.
With limited time left on the live broadcast, the host wrapped things up with a smile. “Alright, thank you to Acemon for the amazing performance. We’re excited to see more from you now that you’re back.”
Once they stepped off the stage and returned to the lounge, everyone let out a sigh of relief. Pei Qiao was already checking Weibo’s trending topics. Acemon’s tag was climbing rapidly, and she kept a close eye on the direction of online discussion.
After changing clothes, Zhu Lianzhen lay on the sofa watching some clips. Fans had already uploaded a segment of the live broadcast performance of “Shake.” He watched to see how everyone had done.
The first half went just as smoothly as he expected, and the effect was several levels better than the practice room version. As he’d thought, only a proper stage could bring out their full potential.
He dragged the progress bar forward, skipping over his own dance solo to focus on Tan Qing’s vocals. “The day the ashes dried up, finally I…”
The lyrics cut off there. Tan Qing lowered his head and frowned slightly, but quickly looked up again with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He raised a hand and mimed getting shot in the temple with a finger gun.
The wink that followed landed perfectly on beat. Zhu Lianzhen’s heart skipped a beat in front of the screen. Without a doubt, even the smallest gestures from Tan Qing could become the killing part of an entire song. He was simply built to draw attention.
Zhu Lianzhen quickly hit pause, checked to make sure no one around him had noticed, then quietly replayed Tan Qing’s part.
This time, he focused on Tan Qing’s hands. As the mic moved away from his mouth, Zhu Lianzhen noticed him subtly using his ring to hook onto the earpiece wire and silently yank it off.
With all the noise at the venue and the delay caused by the sheer size of the space, no singer had any reason to remove their in-ear monitor.
Unless…
“Your earpiece short-circuited?” Zhu Lianzhen blurted out, unconsciously gripping his phone tighter and raising his voice at Tan Qing.
Tan Qing was lowering his head to send a text and didn’t catch the question right away. But Pei Qiao noticed immediately. She turned to Tan Qing and asked more seriously, “What happened?”
“It’s nothing. It didn’t hurt.” Tan Qing gave her a relaxed smile. “I already switched to a new one before the second song. Don’t worry, Pei-jie.”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve had the assistant bring extras from the company.” Pei Qiao pulled out her phone, preparing to make a call. “I’ll notify PR.”
Zhu Lianzhen silently exited the video and put away his phone.
Did it really not hurt?
How could the sharp sting of an electric current possibly not hurt?
After seven years since debut and performing at hundreds of shows, Zhu Lianzhen had experienced his fair share of in-ear monitor malfunctions. Not every live performance came with the luxury of custom gear. Sometimes it just caused discomfort, but other times the pain could be so intense it left half his head throbbing. It always affected the performance.
No wonder Tan Qing had lowered his head, frowned, and skipped the high note… Zhu Lianzhen finally understood.
But more than that, he was stunned by Tan Qing’s terrifying endurance. Any normal singer in that situation would’ve grimaced—Zhu Lianzhen himself, even with quick reflexes, would’ve instinctively ducked his head to hide his expression from the audience. But Tan Qing had managed to stay composed, even offering fanservice while in pain.
“Are you even human?” Zhu Lianzhen muttered in disbelief. Sometimes, he genuinely suspected Tan Qing of defying basic human logic.
He hadn’t expected such a quiet comment to be overheard. But Tan Qing turned around and said, “If you were in that situation, you definitely would’ve done the same.”
“—Anything you can do, I can do too.”
Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t tell if Tan Qing meant that as a challenge, but there was nothing provocative in his expression. Puzzled, he replied, “What’s the point of comparing that?”
Tan Qing simply pressed his lips together and said nothing more.
After removing their makeup, the group left the venue.
Zhu Lianzhen asked Ah-Xu, “Do you still have the number of the person in charge of the custom in-ears from last time?”
“You’re changing yours again?”
Zhu Lianzhen looked around to make sure no one was nearby before answering with a casual air, “Ask them… how long it’d take to order four sets.”
“What, planning to wear a different one for each season now?”
Zhu Lianzhen sighed. Not wanting to admit it was for Tan Qing, he offered an excuse. “It’s been a while since we’ve all seen each other. Thought I’d get my teammates a little gift.”
Ah-Xu stopped walking, then leaned against the wall, eyes wide as she exaggeratedly exclaimed, “Holy shit, I must be seeing things.”
“Hurry up,” Zhu Lianzhen said, nudging her to keep moving. “When you deliver them, just say they’re from the company, okay?”
“Got it.” Ah-Xu covered her grin with one hand and teased, “Aiyo, still acting shy.”
Zhu Lianzhen’s ears turned red. It wasn’t embarrassment over the gesture itself—he just hadn’t done anything for Tan Qing in so long that it felt awkward.
Of course, his concern had nothing to do with feelings beyond those of a teammate. He just didn’t want another in-ear monitor malfunction during a performance. That was all.
Two vans pulled up in succession. Just as he was about to get into his own, Zhu Lianzhen noticed flashing colored lights coming from the backseat of the other vehicle.
“What’s that?” He walked over in confusion and could just barely make out the silhouette of a long-haired girl.
His heart sank. He immediately stepped forward and pulled open the door, locking eyes with the person inside in stunned silence.
Ah-Xu followed and quickly assessed the situation: the driver was nowhere to be seen, and a young girl sat in the back of Tan Qing’s van, holding a glowing “QingZhen” sign—clear proof she was a CP fan.
The sight of a stalker going this far made Zhu Lianzhen so furious he actually laughed. He clenched his jaw and stepped aside to let Ah-Xu handle it.
“Get out. Is this where you’re supposed to be?” Ah-Xu’s expression turned cold. “I’m counting to three. If you’re still here, I’m calling the police.”
Panic flashed across Tan Xiao’s face, and she scrambled out of the van. She’d originally planned to introduce herself, but it hit her that Tan Qing probably never intended for her to meet Zhu Lianzhen directly. If she greeted him recklessly now, it might cause trouble for her brother.
So she obediently stood still and quickly flipped her “QingZhen” sign around. Unfortunately, Zhu Lianzhen had already seen it.
He got into the van without a word, leaving Ah-Xu outside to keep an eye on the girl.
Zhu Lianzhen felt both disgusted and regretful when it came to stalker fans. Sometimes, he genuinely wished the company could find a way to offer the fans psychological counseling. Wasting their youth on obsessive idol-chasing was just a tragic loss.
Soon, Tan Qing walked over from a short distance away.
He spotted Tan Xiao standing in the corner, being blocked by Zhu Lianzhen’s assistant, and instantly guessed what had happened. He couldn’t help but find it a little amusing.
“Didn’t I text you to wait for me in the car?” Tan Qing asked as he approached.
Ah-Xu immediately sensed something was off—these two actually knew each other. She turned and opened the van door to report to Zhu Lianzhen. “Looks like we got the wrong person.”
“What?” Zhu Lianzhen looked genuinely confused.
As she spoke, Tan Qing was already leading Tan Xiao over. He gave her a nudge. “Did you say hello yet?”
“Hello, Lian-ge! I’m Tan Xiao.” She beamed into the van.
Tan Xiao… That name sounded familiar. Wasn’t that Tan Qing’s little sister?
Ah-Xu cringed with secondhand embarrassment and tugged on Zhu Lianzhen’s sleeve. “Let’s just switch cars.”
Zhu Lianzhen’s eyes landed once again on Tan Xiao’s sign. He knew that inside the glowing circle of LED hearts were two big characters: “QingZhen.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. Shit, I must be seeing things.
