After Exploding in Popularity from a Talent Show, I’m Openly Teased and Secretly Doted on by an Obsessive Big Shot

I am still not over the scene where the staff members walk into the practice room and walk out absolutely destroyed by how good Gu Nanci sounds. Let me just... appreciate the direction of this scene for a moment. First, the author sets up the expectation: kind-hearted staff members come to warn these reckless trainees who are apparently messing around with the song at the last minute. They walk in with worried expressions. They walk out with identical looks of shock, steps unsteady, questioning their lives. The post-production sister starts muttering to herself about how "the times are changing" and then suddenly adopts this deity-like pity expression toward the cameraman. THIS IS COMEDY GOLD. And then the cameraman actually PEERS INSIDE and hears it. The description of the voice is one of the most vivid I've read: "delicate, smooth, and enchanting—refreshing yet rich in texture... like a tiny hook tugging at the very core of your heart." The author doesn't just tell us it's good, they make us FEEL what the cameraman feels in real time. He goes from skeptical to stunned to reverent in the span of a few lines. The law firm scene is also worth noting—the cigar smoke, the calculating eyes, the way Qian Tao's dialogue is wrapped in false warmth like "exquisitely packaged, expensive honey." This world feels lived-in. The entertainment industry's cruelty isn't abstract; it's in the smoky offices and the whispered threats and the staff members who've already decided these kids are going to fail before they even open their mouths. And the recording studio at night—snack wrappers everywhere, Gu Nanci teaching herself professional software, Wen Jiuyi's muffled wails from outside the locked door. It's chaotic and warm and real. This author knows how to paint a room.

Okay, I need to talk about how this chapter is basically two parallel plots running on different frequencies and they're about to collide. On one hand, you have the corporate boardroom scene where Xi Ruqian is laying out his plan to use Gu Nanci as a controversy magnet—black fame is still fame, apparently. The man is so cold it's impressive. But then the chapter pivots to Gu Nanci herself, quietly uploading a song to Yuecai because she needs money for a lawyer, and suddenly this whole undercurrent of her actually being a legitimate music genius starts surfacing. The plot twist here isn't some big dramatic reveal—it's that she's been playing a completely different game the whole time while everyone thinks she's just a pretty vase. And then Jiang Xihe's team discovers her song and calls it a 'Celestial Tune'? That's the kind of domino effect that's going to make the next few chapters absolutely wild. The mystery buyer adding twenty percent commission and logging off immediately—what is that about? Who even is that person? I'm already three chapters in and I'm hooked on the tension between what everyone thinks Gu Nanci is and what she's actually capable of.

I'm going to be honest with you: the pacing in these chapters is absolutely ruthless in the best possible way. Let me break down why this works so well. We open with Gu Nanci and Wen Jiuyi negotiating a team-up—that's immediate character dynamics, quick dialogue, establishes the central relationship tension. Then we get Wen Jiuyi's individual showcase, which is described with enough detail to make us feel his skill level without dragging on. The audience reaction, the judges' praise, Yin Yue's barely-visible clap—efficient worldbuilding that tells us exactly where Wen Jiuyi stands in this hierarchy. Then Cheng Yang enters, and BOOM, the revenge plot kicks in. The jacket scene alone does so much narrative heavy lifting: it establishes Cheng Yang's personality, his relationship with Wen Jiuyi, his grudge-holding nature, AND it gives us a moment of pure comedic relief after the tension of the showcase. But here's where the pacing gets really smart. Instead of letting us ride that comedic high, the author immediately pivots to the bye announcement. The venue falls SILENT. The internet erupts. The mood shifts from entertainment to outrage in one paragraph. And then—just when you think the chapter is about wrapping up with Gu Nanci's quiet moment—the author drops the revelation about the company's scheme. Wen Jiuyi and Cheng Yang connect the dots. The reader connects the dots. And then Gu Nanci walks out and gets intercepted by his uncle. The chapter doesn't end on a high note or a low note—it ends on a note of pure, unresolved tension. The final scene in the conference room on the fortieth floor, with Fu Zhi calling Gu Nanci "a promising talent" and Xi Ruqian being called "a waste," tells us the machinery is already in motion. Every transition in these chapters serves a purpose. Nothing lingers. Nothing drags. It's like the author knows exactly how long you can hold your breath before you need a new scene to breathe.

This chapter is a masterclass in escalating stakes, and I need to unpack why it works so well. It starts small — five points for a broken vase. Seems minor, right? But the narrative immediately establishes that five points is the difference between debut and elimination for Wen Jiuyi. The company's original plan hinges on precise positioning, and every variable that shifts threatens the whole structure. Small conflict, enormous consequences. That's good writing. Then it escalates. Cheng Yang voluntarily takes the penalty, which transforms a disciplinary issue into a team-building moment. Xi Ruqian reframes it again into a PR win. The conflict doesn't resolve — it mutates. Each character is solving for a different variable, and the tension comes from watching those calculations collide. But the real stakes reveal themselves in the competition rules. The group stage is thirty points. The solo stage is reserved for the top three. And the free stage — live battles where the winner gains three points and the loser loses two. Refusing a challenge costs one point. This is designed to force conflict, to pit contestants against each other systematically. Si Chang understands this immediately: "A battle, huh? That waste Gu Nanci is done for!" What makes the stakes feel real isn't just the points system. It's the personal cost. Gu Nanci is suing for her reputation while simultaneously trying to survive a competition designed to humiliate her. Si Chang is buying songs and manipulating lotteries because he knows that if he doesn't control the outcome, he loses everything. Wen Jiuyi's compassion isn't just a personality trait — it's a liability in a system that rewards ruthlessness. And Gu Nanci's secret relief when she draws number three? That's the highest-stakes moment in the chapter. She's not just playing the competition. She's playing the players. The suspense isn't whether she'll survive the stage — it's whether she'll survive the people on it.

Let's talk about what music actually represents in this story because it's way more than background decoration. In the Luanguo idol industry, songs are commodities—idols buy them, corporations treat them as products, and the whole system is built on the idea that talent is secondary to marketability. But Gu Nanci's music is different. It's her voice, her truth, her way of fighting back against a system that wants to use her as a talking head. The fact that her song is discovered by Jiang Xihe's team through Yuecai—the same platform where she's selling it for money—creates this beautiful irony: the industry that dismissed her as a 'talentless vase' is now desperate for her art. The mysterious buyer's username 'Today I Also Want to Destroy the World' feels symbolic too, doesn't it? Like someone who understands the chaos she's in and wants to burn it all down with her. And Si Chang's moral high ground post—'what goes around comes around'—is the perfect counterpoint to Gu Nanci's quiet, practical rebellion. He's performing goodness; she's actually doing something about it. The whole chapter is built on this contrast between appearance and reality, between the idol industry's polished surface and the messy, complicated truth underneath.

Let's talk about how sharp EVERYONE's dialogue is in this chapter because the author really understands how to give each character a distinct voice. Xi Ruqian's lines are always polished and controlled until they're not. "Why didn't you notify me before hiring a lawyer!" — that opening line is pure shock and anger masked as authority. Then he shifts into this cold, calculated tone: "You've gotten this far because of my planning. Though lazy and foolish, you were obedient, so I was willing to invest effort in shaping you." The way he lists her flaws like they're items on a receipt is so dehumanizing and perfectly captures a manipulative agent who sees people as assets. And his final line — "don't forget that performance-based contract. You have less than a year left!" — delivered with such casual cruelty. He literally smiles while threatening to destroy her career. Gu Nanci's voice is equally distinct. Her responses are short, sharp, and loaded with meaning. "So it's just a suggestion, right? Then, I refuse." The pause between those sentences is PERFECT. She's not shouting — she's calm, which makes it infinitely more powerful. And later when she's explaining the musical arrangement to Cheng Yang, her dialogue shifts completely into professional mode: "The song you picked is indeed very suitable for live performances. However, the original singer of this song is a solo artist…" She goes from defiant to analytical in one breath, and it shows how multifaceted she is. Cheng Yang's voice is the most comedic — he's constantly internal monologuing about how doomed he is. "I must have been influenced by that overly sympathetic Wen Jiuyi! To actually think Gu Nanci is pitiful and want to help him gain some fans!!" This is pure comedic relief but it also reveals his character: he pretends not to care but clearly does. And Wen Jiuyi? "Brother Wen will teach you!" — this guy is just pure enthusiasm personified. The narrative voice itself is also fantastic. It's witty, slightly sarcastic, and has this great rhythm. Lines like "A rose full of risks, no matter how vibrant, he wouldn't dare cultivate. This was his life creed" feel like they're from a proper novel, not web fiction.