Chapter Nine: Genuine Novels, Absurd Realities

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“Inner circle tickets cost 1980? That expensive?”
Taking advantage of the makeup break before the performance, Yu Wei casually looked up the ticket prices for their farewell concert.
He knew fan circles were notorious for milking fans, but he hadn’t expected it to be this ruthless. Fifteen songs in the concert, mediocre quality at best, yet the ticket prices were sky-high.
This was downright extortionate.
Yu Wei felt he had some authority on the matter; he had attended G.E.M.’s concert before. She sang thirty-seven songs solo, and even then, the inner circle tickets were just a bit over a thousand.
Damn it, a few fresh-faced boys just lip-syncing and jumping around demanding two thousand yuan? This wasn’t merely ripping people off—it was outright fraud.
What made it even more infuriating was that he was one of them.
“You only realized this on the first day?”
Qi Yuan, busy fixing his hair, shrugged. “I bet a lot of people bought from scalpers anyway. The cost would be even higher...”
Yu Wei had heard about this; performances by trending idols were a hotbed for scalpers, with five-digit prices not uncommon.
Those attending singer concerts generally wanted to enjoy the music and the atmosphere. Most fans remained rational—if they missed this chance, they’d wait for the next.
But fandom fans were different. They placed immense importance on “promises” and “companionship,” refusing to give up without a ticket in hand.
No wonder capitalists love fan economies. The purchasing power and loyalty here dwarf what traditional entertainment industries can muster.
It’s all fine for those well-off and living within their means, but the real worry is those who spend recklessly, suffering themselves and dragging their family and friends down with them...
What’s worse, the more they spend, the more self-congratulatory they become, thinking their sacrifice for love is noble.
But idols don’t care.
At least on the faces of his teammates, Yu Wei saw no trace of such sentiment or psychological burden. To them, fans who spent fortunes to attend were probably less important than teammates in a single game...
Yu Wei himself felt no burden either; these people weren’t buying tickets for him.
With his street-level popularity, he probably couldn’t even get a share of KFC’s Crazy Thursday deals, let alone have anyone spend thousands to see him live.
For the record, Yu Wei clarified here: he never cheated his fans out of money. He was too low-profile to make any money off them...
“Enough with the noise, always complaining, so annoying.”
In a stadium packed with tens of thousands, with fans so fervent, even backstage they could hear the shouting and screaming from the audience.
“What’s all the fuss about? Seriously.”
Zhang Lingye had a fiery temper and often cursed fans; the others were used to it.
Compared to them, he just put his disdain out in the open; what the silent ones thought, no one knew...
Yu Wei glanced at him but said nothing.
Anyone could curse fan circle fans, but could those benefiting and nurtured by fan culture really treat fans this way?
He was an outsider; he honestly didn’t understand.
The entertainment industry was a cesspool; no one could escape its stain after long enough. Zhang Lingye was, Qi Yuan was, and so were the others.
They weren’t inherently bad, but after being stars for a while, they subconsciously felt superior and stopped caring about ordinary people...

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But Yu Wei was different. He was a lowly writer earning only three or four thousand yuan per article—an utterly ordinary man.
He only hoped that someday in the future, he wouldn’t become the kind of person he despised.
A dragon slayer turning into a tyrant—would a writer of entertainment stories become the villain in his own novel?
“Time to go on stage.”
The staff’s call snapped Yu Wei out of his daze. One by one, they composed themselves and took the stage, with Yu Wei last according to billing order.
The band, Tear Drop, embodied youthful spirit, so their stage outfits were just redesigned color-blocked shirts, nothing like the strange leather or punk styles.
This was a relief for Yu Wei; he couldn’t stand those weird costumes.
The disbandment night wasn’t just about performances; there were interactive segments mixed with awkward chats and greetings, providing some emotional value to the fans.
Zhang Lingye, who had been cursing backstage, instantly switched to a beaming smile, his transformation so skillful Yu Wei was momentarily stunned.
That’s a seasoned actor for you...
As soon as they appeared, a roaring wave of cheers greeted them. The audience waved colorful light sticks chaotically, making it hard for Yu Wei to keep his eyes open.
He even saw the teleprompter on the tall platform opposite the stage, displaying the scripted lines for the upcoming interaction.
The teleprompter was large enough for the fans to see clearly. They all knew the idol-fan interactions were scripted, yet still cheered excitedly.
Even before the idols spoke, the crowd began shouting their names, as if competing for whose fandom was louder and larger.
They strained their voices, vying for “speech rights” for their idols...
Undoubtedly, Qi Yuan won. His name echoed throughout the stadium, drowning out Zhang Lingye and the other four.
Except for Yu Wei—no one shouted his name.
Honestly, he felt Qi Yuan had an unfair advantage; a two-character name was definitely easier to shout than a three-character one.
Zhang Lingye was unfairly defeated.
Yu Wei was a bit nervous at first but quickly realized he didn’t belong here. This stage wasn’t for him.
He was a writer of entertainment, what did he know about idols?
His youth was defined by albums and tapes, ringtones and records. Actors had signature works; singers had hit songs.
Back then, stars appeared on variety shows to promote their works, but now, it’s the variety show celebrities with no real works who appear...
People liked stars for a work, not liked everything about them just because they liked the star.
Suddenly, Yu Wei felt the world of entertainment novels was much more beautiful than the real industry.
Because at least in stories, talent ruled.
Though the protagonist always had cheats, and often was a ghostwriter, at least they produced good works deserving of the audience’s support.
But the real entertainment world was a grotesque tale:
1. Idols sell fantasies; your personal ability doesn’t matter.
2. Your ability matters—if it surpasses your teammates, fans will attack your teammates.
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3. Fans love everything about you.
4. Fans dislike your teammates.
5. You must never let fans know you’re dating.
6. Fans want you to date your teammates.
...
The entertainment world in novels makes sense; reality is absurdly contradictory...
Yu Wei didn’t remember how he finished the group dance, but it didn’t matter—no one cared about him, and he didn’t care about the dance.
Even when the cameraman circled around filming, he never once looked into the lens.
Their livestream was probably only watched by fans. What meaning did such a performance have then? No matter what, someone would cheer it on anyway...
Afterwards, Yu Wei stepped offstage to watch his teammates’ solo performances.
Qi Yuan chose a fresh, light song—not technically challenging but nicely sung, with a clean voice.
Zhang Lingye emphasized stage effects, picking a very explosive song, but the screaming female fans disrupted the atmosphere; it never really warmed up.
The other four teammates’ performances were alright—not bad, but forgettable, like background noise.
Yu Wei was a writer, not an artist, but he could tell good from bad. Somehow, he began to understand why Teacher Honghui was balding; the sound engineers really tried their best.
He lost interest in the second round of performances—not to disrespect his teammates, but because it was torturous to endure.
He had always avoided videos of trending idols singing, fearing ear pollution. After avoiding them his whole life, he had now joined the big mess.
He suggested that when interrogating prisoners, they should make them listen to fan idols sing—at first they might laugh, but eventually, they’d confess...
By the time it was nearly Yu Wei’s turn, he had gone numb.
Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here?
In truth, no one in the audience cared about his performance; some even thought it a waste of time...
As a fan of other members, they couldn’t like Yu Wei, the dead weight. He hadn’t made mistakes, but being bad was a sin in itself.
Yu Wei didn’t care about their judgments.
In reality, a single song didn’t hold such power; no matter how beautiful, it couldn’t wake those pretending to sleep...
It couldn’t move people to tears or shake their souls, but at least a good song could please oneself.
It could immerse him briefly in melody, forgetting this absurd world.
This song was not for anyone in the audience.
It was sung only for himself.