NOVPUBGenerally speaking, the contestants arranged to perform first are usually quite skilled, but they’re never the absolute best.
After all, if the opening act is already the pinnacle of excellence, the audience’s excitement would peak too early, making it hard for the following performers to match that energy without causing disappointment.
Yet, after the very first performance, the entire crowd was already electrified.
With emotions running this high, what would happen when the real headliners took the stage?
After the initial awe wore off, Ji Shan couldn’t help but worry about this very issue.
He turned to gauge the reaction of the big boss, only to find Chairman Sheng Quan already on her feet, waving glow sticks in sync with the roaring crowd.
Watching the usually composed chairman fully immersed in the moment, Ji Shan: "…"
—Sheng Quan was indeed having the time of her life.
As the top boss, she had already experienced multiple cutting-edge holographic projects long before Ning Zhou and his team had even finalized their plans.
By the time holographic technology was unveiled to the public—whether in gaming, films, or lifelike projections—Sheng Quan had already tested the highest-tier versions of them all.
Even before the holographic stage was announced, she knew exactly what kind of spectacle it could deliver.
But no matter how vividly she had imagined it, when the holographic stage materialized before her eyes, she couldn’t help but scream at the top of her lungs:
This is SO FREAKING COOL!!!!
Words failed to capture the sheer impact of what she had just witnessed.
No matter how many times she had reviewed the blueprints, nothing compared to the real thing—some experiences simply couldn’t be conveyed through text.
It was like seeing a photo of a beluga whale on a screen versus watching its massive body glide gracefully before you in person.
To put it simply, the greatest thrill of the holographic stage wasn’t the dazzling special effects or the gravity-defying stunts.
Sure, those were incredible—the stage production was off the charts, evoking an almost sci-fi sensation, as if humanity had already stepped into the interstellar era.
But none of that was the true essence of it.
The real magic? The holographic stage brought experiences once reserved for a privileged few (like her) to the masses.
Here’s the thing: Given Sheng Quan’s status in the industry, she could secure a front-row seat, interact with the performers, and even lock eyes with them as they glanced her way.
But could the average audience member do the same?
Of course not. In the real world, fans would fight tooth and nail just to snag a decent seat at a concert, only to watch their idol’s gaze sweep past them without a second glance—because from the stage, the crowd was just a sea of indistinguishable faces.
But on the holographic stage, every single audience member felt like they were part of an intimate, one-on-one interaction.
The "camera" existed, but it functioned more like a proportional magnifier. When a performer needed a close-up, the holographic tech made it seem as though they were standing right in front of every viewer.
The illusion was flawless.
Imagine this: Even if you were sitting in the most obscure corner, your visual experience would rival that of a VVVVIP seat.
You could see every detail—the way the impossibly handsome performers’ chests rose with each breath, the glittering sweat on their brows as they spun, the way their smiles crinkled at the edges. When the group struck their final pose, it felt like they were pausing just for you, their eyes scanning the crowd as if meeting yours alone.
And then came the interactive segments—absolute game-changers.
Every wink, every smile, every playful spin and heart-shaped gesture was directed straight at you, thanks to the holographic tech.
Logically, you knew it wasn’t real. But your eyes? They were fully convinced.
The audience’s excitement skyrocketed to unprecedented levels.
"The beginning," Gu Zhao remarked.
Sheng Quan nodded in agreement. "Yes, this is just the beginning."
Many believed that Starry Rain had already achieved monumental success, rising to become an entertainment giant in just a few short years.
But to her, the real journey was only now starting.
"The holographic stage exceeded our expectations. I need to log off and adjust our plans," Gu Zhao said, his tone as composed as ever despite the frenzy around them. "Don’t expect me at the celebration tonight."
Amid the chaos, his voice—cool, detached, yet laced with ambition—made him sound like the quintessential elite antagonist from a blockbuster movie.
—If only he weren’t currently embodying a giant Taro plant.
Sheng Quan turned and patted one of the broad leaves on the towering Taro plant that was Gu Zhao.
—Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure whether that particular leaf corresponded to his shoulder, arm, or some other body part.
She also hadn’t decided whether to be shocked that Gu Zhao even had an account on the game "Polaris," let alone that he’d splurged on a rare, player-customized avatar card.
And of all things, he’d chosen to model his avatar after the Taro plant she’d gifted him last year.
In "Polaris," eccentric avatars were the norm—players could be anything from hyperactive fleas to sentient toasters. So Sheng Quan totally understood Gu Zhao’s choice. Besides, she knew he couldn’t care less about others’ opinions; he’d picked this simply because he liked it.
But this was Gu Zhao we were talking about.
Picture this: A towering, leafy green plant emitting Gu Zhao’s signature composed, slightly aloof voice.
—And he seemed blissfully unaware that, despite his collected tone, his leaves betrayed his emotions, swaying and twitching in real-time thanks to his top-tier holographic pod’s feedback system.
Right now, for instance, his excitement about logging off to work was evident—the leaves atop his "head" were practically twisting into pretzels.
Chairman Sheng: Bursts into silent laughter.
After giving one of his leaves (presumably his "head") an affectionate pat, she quickly turned away to hide her grin.
"Ahem. Alright, go ahead."
The Taro plant version of Gu Zhao raised a leaf in acknowledgment, preparing to log off.
"Wait."
He lowered the leaf. "Your instructions?"
Sheng Quan tapped her decorative in-game watch. "Remember to sleep on time."
The Taro plant seemed to wilt slightly, leaves drooping in reluctance. But ultimately, his voice remained steady:
"Understood. I’ll comply."
His words were stern, but his foliage remained decidedly limp.
Sheng Quan: "Alright, no later than eleven o'clock—you must get some sleep. You're the backbone of the company, so take good care of your health."
She watched as the wilted leaves of the giant elephant ear plant in front of her suddenly perked up, as if revitalized.
"Understood. Thank you for your concern."
Gu Zhao replied calmly, his tone measured.
Then, with the now-lively leaves on his head twisting excitedly into spirals, he happily logged off.
Sheng Quan thought: Maybe I shouldn’t tell him the truth.
She turned back, about to summon a chair with a wave, when Yu Xiangwan beside her swiftly curled his tail around one and placed it behind her.
Chairwoman Sheng sat down, glancing first at Yu Xiangwan’s long, fluffy tail, then at the pair of strikingly beautiful fox ears atop his head, which twitched slightly under her gaze.
She praised, "You’ve got great control over that tail."
Yu Xiangwan’s eyes instantly brightened, his thick, fiery-red tail swaying eagerly behind him, his ears standing even straighter than before.
Sheng Quan: My hands itch—I want to touch it.
Yu Xiangwan had always been the most perceptive of Chairwoman Sheng’s preferences—and the most unabashedly eager to fulfill them.
The next second, the exquisitely fluffy tail he had painstakingly selected from the in-game store was right at her fingertips.
"Would you like to pet it?"
Sheng Quan: "..."
She really did.
She gave the tip of his tail a gentle stroke, and Yu Xiangwan looked positively euphoric, as if touched by divinity.
His tail wagged uncontrollably, fast enough to leave afterimages.
Sheng Quan, who barely had time to register the softness of the fur: "..."
Well… at least he’s happy.
Shaking her head in amusement, Chairwoman Sheng opened the store and purchased a snow-white tiger tail for herself, hugging and stroking it nonstop.
Ah~ So soft. No wonder tail accessories are the best-selling skins in the game.
Sheng Shrewd Businesswoman Quan immediately decided to instruct her team that night: design more stunning, ultra-soft tails and sell them at a premium.
The whales would gladly pay up.
"No wonder we did all those bizarre drills during training—the anti-interference prep was for this!"
"Our performance was normal, but on-screen, the stage was completely inverted!"
As the show progressed, the contestants who had already performed huddled together, buzzing with excitement.
"So many people were singing along with us!"
"I even saw a hippo joining in!!"
"Ahhh! The crowd was HUGE!!"
"The fireworks at the end were GORGEOUS!!! I want to see it all again!!"
Forgive their limited vocabulary—after all, to capture the entire audience in-frame, the game’s massive virtual stands had spectators piling on top of each other.
Luckily, this was the game world. Even three audience members stacked like pancakes wouldn’t ruin the experience—otherwise, chaos would’ve erupted.
The performers onstage could barely make out the crowd. One glance, and their brains short-circuited: Sea of people people people.
But the roaring feedback? That came through loud and clear.
Every contestant who had stepped onstage was riding an all-time high.
The energy!
The screams!
The cheers!
The collective singing!
One rookie trembled as he spoke, finally understanding why veterans yearned for the stage.
This was performing?
The spotlight, the sea of eyes locked onto you, the deafening roar for you—
"No wonder seniors always say they’d take less pay just to perform," he mused, starry-eyed. "If every stage feels like this, I’d dance forever."
"Dream on, kid."
A seasoned performer clapped his shoulder. "We got lucky with Guoxinghai. For nobodies like us, most stages? Nothing like tonight."
"An audience alone is a win. If they participate? That’s a miracle."
The veteran’s eyes gleamed as he caught his breath. Unlike the teens, his body needed recovery after the high-octane set—but his spirit burned brighter than ever.
"Know how blessed we are? This crowd, this production—not just nationally, globally, no unknowns get treated like this."
"Tonight’s viewer count might be a lifetime peak for us."
The rookie gaped. "Why?"
He turned to the holographic crowd, his gaze star-drunk. "I want this forever. To dance till I can’t. I love this feeling."
The veteran fell silent.
He wanted to say "Grow up"—he’d been that naive once, believing hard work guaranteed the stage.
But no stage? No dance.
He swallowed those words.
His gaze lifted to the VIP section, where Chairwoman Sheng now sported a tail accessory. To him, she might as well have been a deity bestowing grace.
Around him, other performers who’d tasted industry struggles shared that reverent stare.
Among them was Ji Shi, the ice-queen performer dabbing sweat off her brow as the crowd’s applause thundered—for her team.
Even her aloof demeanor cracked into fervor as she watched Sheng Quan.
"The Chairwoman is revolutionizing this industry," she declared.
"From now on, we’ll always have stages."
Her young teammate nodded fiercely. "Always. No more droughts."
They scanned the roaring, immersive audience, eyes alight with hope.
"D’you think this is the beginning?"
—"It has to be."
Tu Zhu took the stage.
Backstage, he’d overheard everything.
The ecstatic post-performance chatter—"They chanted my name!" "The crowd sang every word!"
The nervous pre-show whispers—"How many viewers?" "What’s the vibe?"
In his corner, Tu Zhu drilled his routine, muscle memory in motion.
With every move, echoes of the past two years haunted him.
Arms raised—
"You’re past your prime. No stage wants you anymore."
Spin—
——"Tu Zhu, what's the use of liking something? You love the stage, you love dancing, but will the audience love you? Have you seen the kind of reviews you're getting online?"
Leap.
——"Just focus on acting. Ignore the haters. Look how lucrative acting is—money and fame come as long as you take on roles. Isn't that enough?"
Land.
——"That's Tu Zhu, isn't it? He really is good-looking. What a shame—pretty face, nothing else."
Arch back.
——"Tu Zhu, do you really think leaving the company will bring back the old you? Step on that stage, and the audience will boo you off!!!"
Spin around.
Tu Zhu straightened up, his eyes brimming with something between pain and rebirth.
"Zhu Zi!!!"
He turned to see his three roommates, arms slung over each other's shoulders, calling out to him with carefree excitement, no trace of nerves in their voices. "It's our turn! Let's go!"
Lan He, just off the stage, cheered, "Tu Zhu, you've got this!"
Then, with a gasp of delight, she added, "Is Chairman Sheng looking our way?!"
The young man froze, lifting his gaze to the high platform above.
There, Chairman Sheng stood quietly, her eyes fixed on the scene below. For a fleeting moment, their eyes seemed to meet. She smiled—whether she recognized him or not—and flashed him a thumbs-up.
Tu Zhu mirrored her smile and gesture, calling out, "You've got this too!"
He broke into a light jog, his steps as buoyant as they once were.
"Coming!"
And just like that, he walked toward the light.
