Chapter Sixty-One: Variety Show Recording (Double Episode)

After half a month apart, both of them missed each other dearly. With those three third wheels finally gone, Zhou Miao seized the chance to hold Hu San’s hand, squeezing it gently, utterly unrestrained. Hu San blushed crimson, glancing guiltily toward the door.

“You’re going to get us in trouble—what if a server comes in?” she whispered.

“Relax, they won’t,” Zhou Miao replied, his body at the peak of youthful vigor. Now that they had officially started dating, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander.

“Excuse me, sir, here’s some complimentary plum juice for you,” the server said, pushing open the door. She caught sight of the couple inside: one slumped over the table, the other gazing out the window, both silent as if they’d just had a fight.

As soon as the server left, Hu San, still bent over the table, punched Zhou Miao hard. “We almost got caught!”

Zhou Miao rubbed his nose. “So what if we were? What’s wrong with holding my girlfriend’s hand?”

But in truth, the restaurant was hardly the best place for a date. Zhou Miao put on his mask, paid the bill, and suggested they leave. It was still early, not yet nine o’clock, and he proposed taking her to see his apartment.

Hu San hesitated. Zhou Miao seemed a little off tonight, his gaze almost feverish. Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she agreed—it couldn’t hurt to learn the way.

His place wasn’t far from the restaurant; it took less than half an hour by taxi. As soon as Zhou Miao opened the door, Nougat—the cat—trotted out from the entryway, immediately climbing up his trouser leg.

When Zhou Miao first returned home after military training, Nougat had been so annoyed at his absence she’d hissed at him for ages before she was finally appeased. Now, though, she was growing ever more attached. Zhou Miao hadn’t been home for half a month, with his assistant, Yang Xiaoya, feeding Nougat in his stead. The poor cat probably thought he’d never return.

Hu San, a little envious, scooped up Nougat to play with her. After all, this cat was Zhou Miao’s darling—she’d have to get on its good side.

Zhou Miao poured her a glass of water, then sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and turning on the television.

“It’s my first time turning this TV on, actually. Now that we have smartphones, I hardly use it at all.”

Hu San sat stiffly, not moving as he held her, the warmth rising in her cheeks.

Zhou Miao suddenly turned to look at her. “Why is your face so red? Are you hot?”

“…A little.”

“The air conditioning is already turned way down,” Zhou Miao said with a teasing smile.

Seeing his mischievous grin, Hu San punched him lightly in the chest, feigning annoyance.

Zhou Miao lifted Nougat from her embrace and set the cat aside, then lay down with his head on her lap. His face pressed against her bare thighs, cool and smooth, filling his senses with a faint, sweet fragrance.

His heated breath tickled her skin, making her squirm. Zhou Miao slapped her leg gently. “Don’t move. Let me stay here a while.”

“Hmph!” Hu San wrinkled her nose at him, tugging playfully on his ear. “Why are you so domineering?”

He turned to face her, pinching her cheek. “Did you miss me?”

“I did~” Though shy, Hu San was honest with her feelings—she never hid her affection for him.

“How much did you miss me?”

“A lot. A whole lot!”

“Exactly how much?”

“I just… missed you, that’s all. Mmm—”

Her words were cut off as Zhou Miao’s lips captured hers. Off to the side, Nougat watched the entwined couple with silent reproach, reaching out a paw to tap them, only to be pushed away mercilessly by Zhou Miao.

“Why not stay the night?” Zhou Miao’s eyes burned with desire.

“…I can’t. There’s a room check tonight,” Hu San gasped, gently pushing him away.

At her words, Zhou Miao buried his face in her embrace, groaning in frustration. Hu San stroked his hair soothingly. “Alright, be good. I have to go—it’s getting late.”

Zhou Miao clung to her, refusing to let go. Helpless, Hu San kissed him hard twice. “I’ll come keep you company another time, I promise. Tonight’s just not possible.”

“Fine, I’ll take you back,” Zhou Miao said, crestfallen.

Hu San couldn’t help but laugh at his dejection. “No need. You just finished military training—you should rest. I’ll take a cab back.”

“Call me when you get there.”

“I will.”

Reluctantly, they parted. Zhou Miao couldn’t calm himself, his whole body feverish with longing. He hurried into a cold shower, trying to get himself under control.

The next morning, just as Zhou Miao was about to leave after Professor Guan Yu’s composition class, Guan Yu called him back.

“Are you free this weekend?”

“I am. What’s up?” Zhou Miao was puzzled—it was the first time Guan Yu had ever asked about his schedule.

“CCTV’s Science China reached out to us. They want to do a special episode introducing art schools—representatives from each major school will attend, both a teacher and a student. The dean wants us to go.”

Science China was an old, reputable show; Zhou Miao didn’t think much of it and agreed. “Do I need to prepare anything?”

“No, just show up. Sunday at 1 p.m., Beijing TV station. Don’t forget.”

“Got it.”

Sunday afternoon, Zhou Miao and Guan Yu arrived backstage at the recording. Quite a few guests had been invited—representatives from Central Drama Academy, Beijing Film Academy, Beijing Dance Academy, the Central Academy of Fine Arts, and more. Among them were several current celebrities like Zhou Miao.

Especially at places like Central Drama and Beijing Film, which accepted swathes of future stars every year. Picking one representative was nothing—there were plenty to choose from.

Zhou Miao’s appearance drew the attention of several artists. Those from the music world pretended not to notice him, but a few actors came over to say hello—after all, there was no rivalry between them, and it never hurt to befriend the hottest new talent in the music scene.

The teachers, meanwhile, were oblivious to the students’ subtle jockeying for status—they were too busy looking down their noses at each other: music academies versus music academies, drama schools versus drama schools…

In this odd atmosphere, Kang Ning, the host of Science China, came out to greet everyone, briefly going over the order of appearance and things to keep in mind.

To the annoyance of many present, the grand finale would be Central Conservatory’s Guan Yu and Zhou Miao, but there was nothing to be done; Central Conservatory was the only “Project 211” university among all the art schools, and Zhou Miao was currently the most popular star.

Ten minutes later, the recording began. Following the prearranged order, each school’s teacher and student took the stage. Zhou Miao adjusted his microphone, and when he heard “representatives from the Central Conservatory of Music,” he and Guan Yu stepped out.

As they appeared, the background music abruptly switched to “Nunchaku.” Zhou Miao smiled wryly—clearly the production team was up to mischief. The audience erupted in screams.

Waving to the crowd, Zhou Miao and Guan Yu took their seats in the tiered guest area.

For a long time, art schools had carried an air of mystery to the public, as well as many misconceptions. This episode of Science China aimed to reveal the true nature of art schools to the general audience.

“Hello, everyone. Welcome to Science China. I’m Kang Ning. It’s the start of a new school year—countless students are entering new halls of learning. Honestly, it makes me nostalgic; seeing them reminds me of myself back in the day.

“Most people don’t know this, but I graduated from the broadcasting program at Central Drama Academy. When I told people from my village, they were shocked!

‘What? There’s such a thing as a broadcasting major? Are you sure it’s not some trade school?’” Kang Ning mimicked the villagers, drawing laughter from the audience.

“It’s true—most people know little about art universities. Some kids have real talent, but because they don’t know any better, they end up at ordinary schools. It’s a real shame. So that’s why we wanted to do this episode, to explain what an art school really is.”

Kang Ning went on to describe the unique features and admissions requirements of each type of art academy, addressing some sensitive issues that had been circulating online.

Glancing at his cue cards, Kang Ning continued, “Here’s an interesting question: every year, we hear of many celebrities getting into Central Drama or Beijing Film’s acting programs, but why do we rarely see stars being admitted to music schools like Central Conservatory?”

“Professor Guan Yu, could you help us answer that?”

Guan Yu picked up the microphone, expressionless. “It’s simple—they can’t get in.”

The audience gasped, and the other guests’ faces darkened. Guan Yu’s answer was brutally direct.

“Could you explain the difference in difficulty between the two types of schools?” Kang Ning prompted, ignoring the sharp looks from the other teachers.

“In the news, most celebrities you hear about are admitted to acting programs at film academies. The thing about those programs is the low entry bar—ordinary people can get in, so competition is fierce.”

“Music academies are different. The bar is extremely high, especially at Central Conservatory. Unless you’ve studied music since childhood, progressing through affiliated schools, it’s nearly impossible to get admitted.”

“In the past decade, as far as I know, Zhou Miao is the only celebrity who’s made it in—and that’s because he’s trained since he was a child, with solid all-around skills, plus a year of focused preparation. Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of celebrities in the entertainment industry simply don’t have what it takes to get into a music academy.”

Zhou Miao covered his face in resignation—clearly, the old man didn’t think he had enough haters and was ready to make him even more enemies.

Yet the audience seemed to agree. Zhou Miao’s admission made sense—his piano and composition skills were recognized by all. As for other celebrities… most of them, apart from posing, didn’t seem to have any real skills.

The Beijing Film Academy teacher couldn’t take it anymore, speaking up. “Let me clarify—Professor Guan Yu might not fully understand our acting program. It looks like anyone can get in, but there’s a real bar to clear.”

“When we select students, we’re looking for genuine talent in acting. Not just anyone is accepted.”

The subtle sparring between the two teachers raised the tension in the room. The director hurriedly told Kang Ning through his earpiece to steer the conversation away from the topic.

Kang Ning nodded in understanding. “That’s true. Whether it’s a music or acting academy, the students who get in have both talent and ability—that’s how they stand out.”

“I have some data here: this year, there were 1.6 million applicants for art school entrance exams. In some popular programs, the acceptance rate is less than 1 in 100!”

“One hundred people competing for a single spot—that’s like crossing a single-plank bridge in a sea of horses and soldiers! Besides top-notch professional skills, you have to make sure the teachers remember your name. That’s why there’s always a talent performance in the entrance exam.”

At this, Zhou Miao’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced nervously at Guan Yu, who was glaring at him. Zhou Miao scratched his nose in embarrassment.

Kang Ning, animated, continued, “Back when I did my entrance exam, the teachers wanted a talent performance. I had no skills at all—so I ended up braying like a donkey, since we had one at home and I could mimic it perfectly…”

“If any viewers are interested in applying to art schools, you should start preparing now. Let’s enjoy some talent performances from our guests.”

Zhou Miao’s smile froze—had he known this was coming, he never would have agreed to participate.

Guan Yu, too, fell silent, dreading the embarrassment his student was about to endure.

On the big screen, video clips of various celebrities’ entrance exams played—some sang, some danced, some even performed comic dialogues. But when it was Zhou Miao’s turn, the tone shifted completely.

The footage showed Zhou Miao blowing two flutes at once through his nostrils. The audience erupted with laughter, especially seeing how serenely absorbed he looked as he played—it was almost impossible to keep a straight face.

Utterly mortified, Zhou Miao didn’t know what expression to wear. He scratched his head awkwardly, while Guan Yu hung his head—master and apprentice awaiting judgment, like war criminals on trial.

Normally, Kang Ning maintained his composure as a host, but today he couldn’t help himself. After watching Zhou Miao’s video, he could no longer look him in the eye.

Rubbing his aching cheeks from laughing so hard, Kang Ning asked, “Uh, Zhou Miao, may I ask—why did you choose such a… unique talent to perform at your exam?”

“…I didn’t really think about it. It just… happened,” Zhou Miao replied, completely defeated, unable even to answer the host’s question properly.

His awkwardness and regret only made the audience laugh harder, turning the studio into a sea of merriment.

For the rest of the recording, Zhou Miao was completely out of it, not hearing a word that was said. All he knew was that, once the show aired, he would become the butt of countless jokes online.

And that video clip would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Zhou Miao pondered, stroking his chin: if he offered ten million, could he have all copies of the video deleted?

When the recording ended, Zhou Miao and Guan Yu fled faster than the audience. Outside the TV station, Zhou Miao wanted to offer Guan Yu a ride, but the old man darted off without a backward glance—clearly furious.

“That old guy’s got a temper. No wonder he’s still single,” Zhou Miao muttered.