Huanhuan’s head isn’t nearly that big.

The first contestant to take the stage was Chong Ming, who ranked fifth in the points standings. Unlike most other contestants, he participated as a trainee from a talent agency, and his abilities were notably well-rounded, with a decent stage presence.

The second to perform was Ye Yu, ranked eighth...

Ji Shengxue was seventh to take the stage, followed closely by Chu Hao, Ji Fanxing, and Hailan.

The top four contestants, who had the greatest advantage in the competition, were scheduled to appear last, while those with lower rankings performed earlier.

This time, Ji Fanxing was slated as the second-to-last performer, allowing ample room for the earlier contestants to showcase themselves.

By rights, the penultimate spot is considered prime—a headline position. Yet, the stories of the “Demon King” Ji Fanxing ending the show almost as soon as she began cast a deep psychological shadow over the other contestants.

None of them wanted to perform under the pressure of following Yu Zhu.

As the performances began, Chong Ming, the first to take the stage, sang a love song. It was clear he had given his all in hopes of earning the invitation letter.

“It’s tough, but he’s finally made progress,” Ji Fanxing couldn’t help but remark.

“Yes, he sang this song beautifully,” Ning Ze echoed her sentiment.

Chong Ming’s song was a classic foreign piece, but through his innovation and arrangement, the originally gentle and steady melody became heartfelt and moving.

When Ji Fanxing spoke of progress, she wasn’t referring to how well he sang, but rather to his courage as a newcomer to innovate on a classic.

Such innovation was rare in the closed-off music scene of Longguo.

On the mentor panel, Fang Zhijing gave a thoughtful critique. “I can tell this song was rearranged; you raised the key slightly. That’s a difficult maneuver—one misstep and your voice could crack. But you handled it skillfully, which made the song feel fresh. However, there are still some minor issues to pay attention to…”

Fang Zhijing’s appreciation for Chong Ming’s innovation made him seem almost regretful about the contestant’s potential. Unlike his concise feedback to Lu Yi, he dissected Chong Ming’s performance point by point, nearly turning the live show into a miniature lecture.

[Honestly, I’m impressed.]

[Haha, look at Lu Yi’s face turning green beside him. The way he’s glaring at Chong Ming—must be jealousy!]

[Both did rearrangements, but while one elevated the song, the other turned a good piece into a mess.]

A truly outstanding work always stands apart, and as the audience listened to Master Fang’s critique, they couldn’t help but share Chong Ming’s nervousness on stage.

In the end, Fang Zhijing awarded a score of 78, Xie Huai gave 89, and Lu Yi, his face sullen, settled on a middle value of 82…

Ji Fanxing propped her head on her hand. “I didn’t expect Fang Zhijing to be so strict with his scoring.”

Even the “venomous” Xie Huai had little to criticize about this song. If she were scoring, adjusting for the national average in Longguo, she would have given at least an 80.

Was Fang Zhijing strict because he liked the song, or was he deliberately suppressing the score?

Ji Fanxing, well aware of the entertainment industry’s darker corners, couldn’t believe no one would covet Fang Zhijing’s invitation letter. Yet, his comments on Weibo before the competition suggested a clear stance.

She couldn’t help but wonder if, at the outset, he genuinely intended to give the invitation to its most deserving recipient…

Ning Ze, tone-deaf as he was, couldn’t judge the quality of the onstage songs, but the tense atmosphere of the competition infected him. He grew anxious on Ji Fanxing’s behalf and felt guilty for distracting her from preparing for the contest.

He didn’t dare voice his worries, afraid to weigh her down further, so he sat in silence, hunched over in self-reproach.

Was wielding capital really that easy? Why hadn’t he thought things through before rushing after the next big thing? Now, not only could he not help her, but he’d become a burden.

Ning Ze, tall and broad-shouldered, sat behind and to the right of Ji Fanxing, head bowed so low it almost brushed her supporting hand.

Feeling a tickle on the back of her hand, as if a furry object had brushed against it, Ji Fanxing, lost in thought, instinctively reached out and stroked it.

The soft texture was delightful, much like the golden retriever she’d raised on Earth.

She opened her palm and rubbed a little more, the “fur” slipping through her fingers and over her palm.

Halfway through, she suddenly stopped.

Wait—her dog’s head was never this big.

Startled into awareness, Ji Fanxing realized what she’d done.

During her missions on Earth, to ease her loneliness whenever circumstances allowed, she’d keep cats and dogs for company.

She’d gotten so used to petting them that, without thinking, she’d just petted a person.

What a mistake.

She quickly withdrew her hand and cleared her throat to mask her embarrassment.

“Why are you slouching so low? You’re blocking my hand. Move over, would you?”

“Oh…” Ning Ze’s eyes lit with understanding. So he was blocking her hand—that feeling just now must have been his imagination.

But… that illusion felt far too real. Flustered, he grabbed a drink from the table and took a sip, his gaze unfocused, his mind wandering. If it hadn’t been an illusion… well, it actually felt pretty nice…

The second performer, Ye Yu, had a very different approach from Lu Yi.

To make a good impression on Fang Zhijing, she chose a song with traditional national elements.

But… as Ji Fanxing listened, her brows drew tighter—the song was an original, yet the transition between the pop first half and the traditional second half was jarringly awkward.

The songwriter clearly hadn’t grasped the essence of “national style,” instead producing a clumsy imitation. A perfectly good composition was rendered neither here nor there by the forced inclusion of traditional elements.

A good national-style song should inspire listeners’ interest in and connection to their own culture.

But this sort of mechanical grafting had the opposite effect.

It just felt odd.

Ye Yu finished singing and waited nervously for the judges’ feedback, inwardly elated. Her efforts shadowing Ji Shengxue had paid off; she’d gleaned a key insight. Lately, since Fang Zhijing had been working on the “Ancient Melody” series, he’d developed a liking for songs with traditional elements.

So she’d paid a hefty sum to commission this piece. When she first sang it, she thought it mediocre, but blinded by the promise of a shortcut, she decided to take the gamble anyway.

On the judges’ panel, Xie Huai—the only mentor not involved with the invitation letter—was candid and unfiltered. He picked up the microphone several times as if to speak, but each time put it down, at a loss for words.

National-style music, as an emerging genre, lacked clear standards, so he couldn’t offer much solid advice. Yet his instincts as a musician told him Ye Yu was interpreting it all wrong.

Seeing Xie Huai’s silence, Ye Yu grew even more confident. Clearly, her gamble had paid off. Those who toiled day and night were just fools; as long as you had the key, everything you wanted was within reach.

In the King’s seat, Ji Fanxing looked grave. She realized the gravity of the situation. This was the second national-style song of the day, both performed just to ride the trend, both discordant and unpleasant.

As a master musician, Fang Zhijing had enormous influence over Longguo’s music scene.

He’d already been vague in his critique of Lu Yi’s fusion song. If he took the same tone with Ye Yu’s piece, it would easily influence future creators.

Just as Ye Yu was basking in her own cleverness, the previously silent Fang Zhijing finally spoke.