FIG CHAPTER 14

[Music Class Live Discussion Thread ②: Discuss peacefully. No arguing. Report any attempts to incite drama.]

[OP: The last thread already turned into a mess. If you still want to discuss the show properly, come here. No stirring up trouble. Acemon’s stage comes after the ads. Please avoid extreme comments. I’ll delete posts as needed.]

[Comment 2: Front row. Gotta say, Lock Group’s stage was a total train wreck. Just being honest, not hating.]

[Comment 3: Is this episode of Music Class an epic fail or what? All that hype beforehand, and not only was it not pre-recorded, but every singing-dancing group went on with their mics fully on? Are they really that confident? Just because you can’t lip-sync anymore doesn’t mean you have to ditch the backing vocals too.]

[Comment 4: Speechless. I literally said in the last thread that Xue Chun was gasping for air like he was half-dead while singing and got muted right after. Is there really no issue with his breath control? And it’s not just him—Lock-M as a whole lacks vocal training. This is what happens when a company rushes to debut. Their true abilities got exposed today.]

[Comment 5: These ads are so long… I can’t wait to watch this thread get hijacked by A-Group fans again lolol]

[Comment 6: Don’t bring up that has-been group. Acemon’s just dragging things out till they disband at the end of the year.]

[Comment 7: So just because you said not to mention them, we all have to listen? Why are A-Group fans so domineering?]

[Comment 8: Holy crap, is it true Xue Chun cried after getting offstage??? Someone in the audience said so.]

…

At the live broadcast of Music Class, the crowd was buzzing. Lock-M had just finished performing their title track. Offstage, the boys now gathered, visibly troubled. No one had expected the production team to swap out their backing track without warning. The original layered vocals had been completely removed, forcing them to perform raw on stage.

But none of them dared complain. After all, they were the ones who had crossed the production team first. Due to a recent ban on audiovisual programs, Lock-M could no longer rely on pre-recorded tracks for their performances. Still, even with partially live vocals, they didn’t have the upper hand. To maintain their chart performance and stay in the spotlight, their manager had booked them for another show airing at the same time as Music Class.

They weren’t the only artists doing this. After all, live stages could easily go wrong, and if a polished performance aired elsewhere at the same time, they could still control the narrative online.

But no one had expected the Music Class production team to strike back today, switching from partial to full open mics. Without prior notice, it was nearly impossible for the performers to detect the change while wearing in-ear monitors during the show. As they sang, they instinctively lowered their volume or mouthed along during the usual backing vocal parts. Now, every second of that would be broadcast live to audiences across the country.

As the center and main vocalist, Xue Chun was the first to lose control of his emotions. The live broadcast delay had been short, which meant their performance had likely already aired. He didn’t need confirmation to imagine how netizens would mock them.

Their manager returned after negotiating with the directing team and urged them to head to the lounge to change clothes and wrap up. “Stop crying already. It’s not that big of a deal. The replay will have your vocals fixed. Worst case, we re-record and swap in a new track.”

Xue Chun’s eye makeup had already been wiped away by tears and tissues. He asked, “Can we still go on this show in the future?”

“We can, but with a production team this petty, there’s no point in continuing to work with them… Serves them right their ratings keep dropping. They act like they’re the only ones who matter.” The manager waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, it’s only been half a year since your debut, and you can’t even handle a setback like this? It wasn’t just you guys who messed up. As long as everyone sang off-key, we’ll just say the show’s audio system had issues.”

Xue Chun let out a short breath of relief. His dry eyes drifted toward the dimly lit stage, where the five members of Acemon were already in their opening pose, waiting for the host’s cue.

The audience was buzzing with chaos. Acemon fans who had come in person were screaming their names at the top of their lungs. Tan Xiao was seated among them. After fiddling with her light sign for a long while, she finally figured out how to adjust the brightness. Sitting beside her was a fansite leader who patiently taught her how to hold the sign more comfortably.

“Is it okay to only show two of their names?” Tan Xiao asked cautiously. “Won’t the other geges feel bad?”

Tan Xiao knew very little about fan culture. She had almost been scammed buying a ticket from a scalper, but luckily a few older sisters from the fan club had helped her sort it all out. Now, she was happy to hold up a support banner for them.

“They don’t really pay attention to the crowd, okay? This is mostly for fans to compete over who supports harder,” the fansite leader said casually, adjusting her DSLR.

Tan Xiao stared at the “QingZhen” sign in her hands, surrounded by a ring of heart shapes, not entirely sure what to think. She vaguely felt that something so shippy shouldn’t be too flashy. After all, her brother and Zhu Lianzhen were friends. Imagining them as a couple, right in front of their faces, probably made them embarrassed.

Suddenly, the volume of the audience surged to another level. Tan Xiao looked up. On the large screen appeared the dynamic background for Acemon’s song—a soaring eagle above a battlefield, rusted chains crossing through a blazing fire. Several beams of dark red light lit up on both sides of the stage, swaying and flickering at an angle.

“It’s starting, it’s starting!” Fans around her raised their cameras in unison.

The first few seconds of the prelude were marked by slow drumbeats. Tan Xiao focused intently and noticed that beneath the rhythm seemed to be scattered sounds of horse hooves. They blended so seamlessly with the noise of the live audience that it was hard to distinguish them clearly. Before she could quiet her thoughts and reflect on it, falsetto harmonies from Fu Rong and Zhu Lianzhen rang out. Accompanied by classical instruments, the ethereal singing sounded even more desolate and solitary.

At first, Tan Xiao thought the lyrics were in English, but she soon realized some of the words belonged to a more obscure language. The audience’s screaming lasted only two or three seconds before falling silent simultaneously, afraid of ruining the atmosphere of the performance.

The two singers slightly extended their final notes, and just as the harmony faded, a slow, lingering violin melody began to rise, erupting into powerful and dramatic strings.

As the lights rapidly changed, the performers’ faces finally became visible. The music entered the main verse, and the accompaniment shifted into Acemon’s signature electronic dance style, but this time with layered classical instruments that gave it a touch of eeriness. The perfectly synchronized choreography on stage triggered another wave of screams from the audience. The transition from calm to intensity was sudden, like a hurricane sweeping in and making hearts race.

Tan Xiao felt the live drumbeats pounding against her chest. She stared without blinking, watching as the choreography—structured and difficult as always—was executed flawlessly by the five performers, their synchronization as precise as copy and paste.

She couldn’t help but marvel inwardly, but the fansite photographers around her were even more hyped, shouting things like “It’s white! It’s white!” while frantically pressing their camera shutters. Snapping back to reality, Tan Xiao realized she had been so absorbed in the performance that she hadn’t even noticed Zhu Lianzhen’s striking new hair color.

The heavy bass echoed across the venue, and several in the crowd looked up in awe. Xue Chun stared in a daze, completely forgetting that he had led the previous stage not long ago. Yet at this moment, it felt as though all the lights had turned unbearably distant.

Until a teammate leaned in and whispered near his ear, “Are they also all using open mics?”

Xue Chun paused. If the opening harmonies had sounded too ethereal to rule out backing tracks, then Ji Yunting’s clear delivery of “A dagger waits, my throat held tight, one final scream before the bite” proved it was live—the subtle tremble in his voice said it all. It was distinctly different from the exaggerated breath sounds or deliberate mic pops typical of studio recordings.

Not only was Xue Chun thrown off, but his previously composed teammates were now moved as well, breaking into animated discussion about how many styles the song had fused.

“The free are tamed, they bow, they bend, to serve the crowd they once would fend.”

The stage lights grew even brighter. Zhu Lianzhen held his earpiece as he looked down at the audience from above. At that moment, all the classical instruments cut out, and a sharp triple-note led into the chorus. The rhythm was overtaken once again by electronic music. A burst of cold fireworks erupted from the edge of the stage, drawing screams from the entire venue.

“Shake, shake, shake. Let me shake it down.”

“Free to take away, just only a guilty crown.”

The chorus hit with intense beats, and the eye-catching choreography matched it perfectly, showcasing the performers’ total command over their strength.

Xue Chun found it hard to believe.

“Holy crap, that formation change…” The teammates beside him were equally stunned. Just before the chorus began, Zhu Lianzhen had been standing center stage, but once the fireworks ended, the center position was smoothly taken over by Tan Qing. The five of them had switched positions all at once, their movements so fluid and precise it almost went unnoticed, making it seem effortless.

Xue Chun felt a tingling along his spine, as if a surge of new energy had been injected into him. Just as he was swept up in Acemon’s group performance, the manager gripped his shoulder and murmured, “Watch closely. Just treat it as a lesson.”

Xue Chun frowned unconsciously.

A lesson? A lesson in what? In Tan Qing’s signature smile? In the expressions and movements that captivated fans? He had already practiced those to perfection, dutifully fulfilling the company’s expectations.

Every idol group needed at least one member in charge of fanservice, and Xue Chun had been chosen for that role because of his outstanding appearance. But he was naturally introverted, unable to confidently or openly showcase his charm. He could only follow the manager’s advice and use Tan Qing as a reference.

And that approach had clearly worked. His fancam from last month had gone viral, and the group’s popularity had soared alongside it. Fans flooded social media, praising his performance skills without reservation. But Xue Chun knew, deep down, that on stage, he had never truly been free to be himself.

“Knock, knock, knock. Go and knock yourself out.”

“Say you want me, say you want me now.”

The electronic music shifted into a dubstep style, marking the beginning of Zhu Lianzhen’s dance solo. Hazy lights cast over his pearl-white hair, creating a gradient of deep blue—both dreamlike and avant-garde. As the beat neared its peak, he performed a side flip and landed on the floor, then rose smoothly using only his core strength. As expected, the audience’s cheers surged to a new peak.

Audience screams were the best fuel for Zhu Lianzhen. Although he couldn’t clearly hear the sound through his in-ear monitors, judging by their expressions, it was obvious they were fully immersed in the stage atmosphere Acemon had created.

As he turned, he brushed shoulders with Tan Qing, and suddenly felt a cold sensation slide across his lower back. Zhu Lianzhen’s thoughts momentarily stalled as he realized his shirt had likely been lifted, the warm skin at his waist exposed to the air.

Taking advantage of the moment, he glanced at Tan Qing and noticed that at some point, Tan Qing had slipped on an intricately designed ring on his left hand, its sharp hook gleaming under the lights. That was likely what had caught the hem of his shirt.

Zhu Lianzhen didn’t have the attention to spare for such a small mishap and quickly refocused on the rhythm of the dance. Soon after, he and Fu Rong entered a section of deep harmonies to support Tan Qing’s vocals.

But unexpectedly, Tan Qing’s lyrics suddenly came to a halt midway through.

Did he miss the high note?

Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but furrow his brows.

---

Translator’s note:

This song was adapted in the audio drama, which you can listen to here: Link. It’s also available on Spotify.

As for the song lyrics in this chapter, I focused more on keeping the rhymes rather than going for a strictly literal translation (but the meaning is still intact 👍)