Yang Chaoyue knew only slightly more about Cao Cheng than his most devoted fangirls did.
Most of what she’d heard came from casual gossip among her sisters.
But then again,
this past year had been exhausting for everyone, especially at the beginning—sleeping in the car, posing for photos after getting off, grinning awkwardly at fans, then jumping around on stage.
That was pretty much the routine.
So in the early days, there wasn’t much time for chit-chat.
Who had time for idle chatter when they barely had time to sleep?
They’d have to be really bored for that… or just plain stir-crazy.
Later, as they gradually adjusted to the schedule, they found a bit more time to talk.
Still,
the eight of them didn’t spend all their time discussing Young Master Cao—it usually came up in passing.
Mostly, they talked about Lin Zhi and her group, with Cao Cheng occasionally mentioned in the mix.
The eight of them were also nursing a competitive streak.
Every now and then, they’d ask around, speculating whether their current popularity had finally surpassed Lin Zhi’s.
…
That was the daily rhythm of their nine-member group this past year.
Which also meant Yang Chaoyue had next to no understanding of Cao Cheng.
In her mind, the big boss was like some final boss in a video game—
the kind with all stats displayed as "???"!
So when she suddenly heard this big boss was coming to watch their concert tonight, the girl couldn’t help feeling a wave of nervousness.
What made it worse was how her sisters loved dropping cryptic hints.
They even deliberately scared her.
What did they mean by "with the sixth one here, they’d be fine"?
There was still some time before the show started.
Yang Chaoyue put on her most ingratiating smile and sidled up to Ye Lan. "Hehehe~~~ Captain, it’s me! Don’t shoot—it’s just little ol’ me!"
"……"
The others around them chuckled at Yang Chaoyue’s antics before tuning out again.
Ye Lan smirked, playing along. "Ohhh~ if it isn’t you."
Yang Chaoyue clung to her captain’s arm, whining, "Captain, you can’t just abandon me! Think of the team spirit! Gotta uphold the team spirit!"
Ye Lan raised a brow. "And how exactly am I supposed to not abandon you?"
"Just… keep an eye on me on stage, okay? If I mess up by accident, back me up afterward. These skinny arms and legs of mine can’t take the heat!"
Ye Lan snorted. "Quit the sweet talk. You’d be better off reviewing the choreography. Last time, you nearly knocked the ninth member off the stage."
"Exactly!" A girl nearby chimed in, nodding emphatically.
That drew a round of laughter from the group.
At the time, everyone had been too busy performing to notice, but when they later saw the fan-captured clips and memes trending online, they’d nearly died laughing.
Of course, the amusement didn’t stop their manager from tearing into them afterward.
Amid the teasing,
Yang Chaoyue spent the next few minutes apologizing to her sisters, promising treats and drinks until they finally let it go.
Then she lowered her voice. "Captain, why do you think CEO Cao is coming tonight? It’s not some undercover inspection, right? What if he docks our pay for bad performances?"
Ye Lan shook her head. "He won’t dock pay."
"How can you be sure? Last concert, Xuan Yi and I talked for ages—she said their agency’s super shady, always finding excuses to cut their share. Scared the heck out of me."
Before Ye Lan could respond, second-oldest Shen Yi cut in. "Oh, you little miser. You really think Young Master Cao would nickel-and-dime you? And since when is any other company comparable to Miracle Media? Everyone knows our contracts are the fairest, with the highest artist cuts in the industry."
That sparked a chorus of agreement—and lighthearted scolding—from the others.
Not that they were actually mad.
They all knew Yang Chaoyue’s personality: penny-pinching, overthinking, always assuming the worst.
It was just how she was.
After a flurry of apologies from "Yang the Sixth," the girls moved on.
Soon, the conversation shifted to other trainees—
like Xuan Yi and the others.
They’d all trained together for half a year, even if some hadn’t made the final lineup.
There was still camaraderie there.
Talking about those who hadn’t debuted brought a tinge of melancholy.
The difference between making it and not was like night and day.
Some girls had been so close—skilled, but just short of the cut. After returning to their own agencies, they struggled.
A few from bigger companies fared better, getting placed in new groups.
Some even launched their own variety shows.
It seemed promising at first.
Fans showed up in droves early on, including supporters from Produce 101 and even some of the nine-member group’s own followers.
But these shows almost always peaked early before fading into obscurity, kept alive only by hardcore stans.
The luckier ones ended up overseas.
Places like Japan or South Korea had more mature idol systems, and some trainees managed to cash in on the hype.
But compared to the nine-member group’s Asia-wide tour?
No contest.
In terms of earnings, the nine girls are at the top of the game.
Even the Japanese and Korean trainees who returned home and debuted as the center of their company's main group earn pitifully little.
During a concert in Korea, we quietly asked around and found out they’re basically treated like laborers.
Their schedules are packed every day.
Endless variety shows.
Countless music stages.
Nonstop rehearsals.
Album releases.
It’s even more exhausting than the nine girls’ concert tours—imagine how grueling it must be.
Yet, despite being worked like donkeys, they only make 12 million won a month.
Converted to Chinese yuan, that’s just over 60,000 RMB.
The nine girls were stunned when they heard this.
And that 12 million won is actually on the higher side.
For most newly debuted girls, unless they’re in a wildly popular group earning 100,000 to 200,000 RMB, those in mid-tier or lower groups probably don’t even get company cars—they have to hail taxis to attend events.
Now, look at the nine girls.
In their first month after debut, each earned over 30 million RMB.
Their endorsement deals paid out a bit more, totaling over 300 million RMB split among the nine.
Of course, according to their contracts, they have to cover some expenses like their managers, assistants, and makeup artists.
But even after all that, each still takes home 30 million RMB.
After taxes?
Over 20 million RMB left.
They felt a mix of heartache and exhilaration.
No wonder people criticize celebrities—everyone knows they make money, but no one expected it to be this much.
Their monthly concert earnings are smaller but steady, a reliable long-term income.
Everything’s relative, though.
Compared to others, they might as well be on the artist rich list.
...
After chatting for a while, the backstage crew signaled them to get ready.
The nine quickly composed themselves, doing a final check on their outfits and makeup.
With their hands stacked together, they cheered each other on.
Time to hit the stage!
grated, and just when he finally managed to get into an elite academy, he discovered that he actually had a system, and the way to earn rewards was extremely ridiculous. So for the sake of rewards, he had no choice but to start acting ridiculous as well. Su Cheng: "It's nothing but system quests after all." But later, what confused Su Cheng was that while he was already quite ridiculous, he never expected those serious characters to gradually become ridiculous too. And the way they looked at him became increasingly strange... (This synopsis doesn't do it justice, please read the full story)
't think I'm that capable, I'm just trying my best to stay alive. I've been kind all my life, never did anything bad, yet worldly suffering spared me not one bit. The human world is a nice place, but I won't come back in my next life. A kind young man, who wanted to just get by singing, but through repeated deceits and betrayals, has gone down an irredeemable path.
e bizarre and supernatural had descended. The previous emperor was a thoroughgoing tyrant; no longer satisfied with human women, he had set his sights on a stunningly beautiful supernatural entity. He met his end in his bedchamber, drained of all his vital essence. As the legitimate eldest son and crown prince, Wang Hao was thus hastily enthroned, becoming the young emperor of the Great Zhou Dynasty. No sooner had he awakened the "Imperial Sign-In Intelligence System" than he was assassinated by a Son of Destiny—a classic villain's opening. The Great Zhou, ravaged by the former emperor's excesses, was in national decline. The great families within its borders harbored their own treacherous schemes, martial sects began to defy the imperial court's decrees, and border armies, their pay and provisions in arrears, grumbled incessantly against the central government. Fortunately, the central capital was still held secure by the half-million Imperial Guards and fifty thousand Imperial Forest Army who obeyed the court's orders, along with the royal family's hidden reserves of power, barely managing to suppress the realm. As the Great Zhou's finances worsened and supernatural activities grew ever more frequent, the court sat atop a volcano. Ambitious plotters everywhere dreamed of overthrowing the dynasty, and even some reclusive ancient powers emerged, attempting to sway the tides of the world. At the first grand court assembly, the civil and military officials nearly came to blows, fighting tooth and nail over the allocation of fifty million taels of silver from the summer tax revenues. The spectacle opened Wang Hao's eyes—the Great Zhou's bureaucracy was not only corrupt but also martially proficient, a cabinet of all-rounders. Some officials even had the audacity to suggest the emperor release funds from the imperial privy purse to address the emergency. Wang Hao suddenly felt weary. Let it all burn.
ing gift was a patch of barren land, and disciples were all picked up along the way. He spent fifty years diligently building three "ramshackle little sects," thinking he could finally live a carefree life relying on his disciples. But right at the fifty-year mark, he was suddenly swept away by a spatial rift and exiled to the Chaos Desolation, the Disorderly Ruins. There was no spiritual energy there, only slaughter. Relying on the cultivation feedback from his disciples, Gu Changyuan hacked his way through a sea of blood for eleven hundred years. When the system finally fished him back out, he discovered the ramshackle little sects he'd built back then had developed a rather... unusual style. Hold on... I vanished for a thousand years, so how did my ramshackle little sects become holy lands?!
