Chapter 3: Setting a Small Goal First

Night had fallen deep, and the other five trainees in the dormitory were already fast asleep, exhausted from the day. Gu Cheng, however, had been injured today and hadn’t exerted himself much, so he didn’t feel tired. Instead, he lay awake, lost in thought.

As he gained a clearer understanding of his situation, a complete plan that merged his schemes for revenge and escape began to take shape in his mind. Quietly, he sat up, rummaged through his bedside cabinet, and pulled out the contract he’d signed with the company, along with the internal rules and regulations. Using the beam of a flashlight, he began to study them carefully, intent on confirming his strategy.

A throbbing pain radiated from the wound on his head, which hadn’t yet scabbed over—a sensation that did wonders to keep him alert.

“As long as I can get evidence that Park Eunho framed me, especially if I can turn it into an issue of racial discrimination, then beat him up and make it into a violent incident, I should be able to both get revenge and leave the company unscathed. If the company is faced with a scandal about a local trainee discriminating against and framing a foreigner, they will be eager to avoid bad press. They’ll likely fire both Park Eunho and me, and won’t dare to demand any penalty fees. As long as I control myself and don’t cause visible injuries, it won’t escalate to a criminal charge.”

This, Gu Cheng concluded after poring over the contract and regulations. Put plainly, he would use Park’s prior fault and his own retaliatory violence to ensure both would be dismissed.

He despised violence, but to achieve his goal, he would have to abandon his scruples.

This method of revenge cost him nothing, since he had no intention of staying anyway. But to Park Eunho, it would be a severe blow—after all, Park was counting on making it as an idol one day. If he got beaten and expelled, it would surely leave him devastated.

Smirking to himself at the thought, Gu Cheng let out a quiet, cold laugh, making enough noise to disturb the roommate sleeping in the adjacent bunk. That roommate shifted and gently kicked the frame of Gu Cheng’s bed.

“Cheng-ge, what’s up? Can’t sleep because your leg hurts?”

“Oh, nothing. Just changing my bandage. I’ll sleep soon.” Gu Cheng quickly switched off his flashlight, brushing off the concern.

Their voices were soft, and they spoke Mandarin, so even if the other four roommates were awake, they wouldn’t understand.

This roommate was Han Geng, a member of an ethnic minority from the Northeast, the same age as Gu Cheng and with a similar tenure at the company. They weren’t particularly close, only bonded by their shared Chinese heritage.

Since crossing over, Gu Cheng hadn’t yet spared a thought for Han Geng’s presence. But now, prompted by the conversation, a new question surfaced: Han Geng was also Chinese—why was Park Eunho’s animosity reserved only for Gu Cheng?

The company’s management had already hinted that a Chinese trainee would be added to HOT’s reserve team. Among the current trainees, only Gu Cheng and Han Geng were competitive candidates.

“If I’m injured and can’t compete, Han Geng will be the one chosen. Park Eunho’s scheme to exclude Chinese trainees won’t succeed, will it?”

Delving into the original Gu Cheng’s memories, he quickly realized that Park’s group actually got along fine with Han Geng.

That made things puzzling.

Piecing together his own experience and the original’s memories, Gu Cheng finally grasped the reason: Some Dongyi (Korean) trainees resented the Chinese because, in the past, several Chinese trainees had “lacked legal awareness” and broken contracts, fleeing without notice. Competition among entertainment trainees was already fierce—over resources and debut opportunities—so the more radical locals took these cases as justification to stereotype all Han Chinese as “cunning and untrustworthy.”

Crucially, this stereotyping only targeted Han Chinese.

It made sense—after all, some ethnic minorities from the Northeast shared ancestry with the Dongyi. They wouldn’t discriminate against their own kind.

Gu Cheng was Han Chinese; Han Geng was from a minority group in the Northeast.

So, Gu Cheng was the one caught in the crossfire.

Understanding this, Gu Cheng felt a surge of frustration. In this scenario, Han Geng stood to benefit greatly at his expense. If Gu Cheng sought revenge and left penniless, Han Geng would almost certainly be selected.

As he pondered this, a crafty idea took root in his mind.

Wasn’t he planning to leave the company and start his own venture? What he lacked was seed money… If he could make Han Geng owe him a favor, maybe even strike a deal for some cash, it wouldn’t be a bad move.

It was only the year 2000. With a few hundred thousand yuan, he might even buy the rights to a major online game like “Legend” and bring it back to China. He could earn some quick money as an online gaming operator, then move into entertainment, where his real strengths lay. What business couldn’t he succeed in?

If Han Geng managed to debut and make it big, asking for a few hundred thousand up front wasn’t unreasonable. If Han Geng didn’t become famous, Gu Cheng figured he could always pay him back with interest someday, treating it as an investment in his “convertible bond.”

Of course, Gu Cheng had read his share of transmigration novels in his previous life. The usual trick for earning a first pot of gold was to plagiarize songs, poems, or stories and sell them. But as a former executive at an internet entertainment company, he knew how hits were made—if you had the resources, even a brick could become famous; if not, even a pearl could go unnoticed.

He wasn’t in a world where everyone had an idiot filter turned on, so he dismissed the idea of starting as a plagiarist.

A chance for a behind-the-scenes deal had come knocking—he couldn’t let it slip by.

…

With these thoughts, Gu Cheng drifted into a deep sleep. The next day, he spent another half day poring over the contract and company policies, refining his plan.

When morning training ended, Han Geng came back drenched in sweat for a shower and a nap.

Gu Cheng stopped him, speaking in Mandarin.

“Hey, can we talk outside for five minutes?”

Han Geng was caught off guard. “Why so formal, Cheng-ge? Can’t we talk here?”

“Relax, it’s something good for your future.” Gu Cheng kept it brief, exuding a calm authority that compelled Han Geng to follow.

On the rooftop, Gu Cheng pulled out a pack of “Hallasan” menthol crush cigarettes, cracked two, and handed one to Han Geng.

Han Geng accepted it, lit up, and blew a smoke ring.

Once he saw Han Geng was settled, Gu Cheng said abruptly, “You’ve heard about the company forming the HOT reserve team, right?”

Han Geng’s expression turned a little awkward. “Who hasn’t heard about that?”

“That’s not all,” Gu Cheng cut to the chase. “The company wants to add a Chinese trainee to the reserve team to help break into the Chinese market later. Right now, the only real candidates are you and me.”

Clearly, Han Geng had already considered this himself. Pushed by Gu Cheng’s directness, he grew uneasy, glancing around nervously. A thought nagged at him: “What if Gu Cheng wants me to throw the competition for him? He never struck me as the shameless type…”

Gu Cheng saw his worry immediately.

He gripped Han Geng’s shoulders, steadying his gaze so he couldn’t look away. “No need to be nervous. I just wanted to tell you: your chance has come. I’m willing to get myself fired, withdraw from the selection. That way, no one will be competing with you.”

Han Geng was stunned.

He hadn’t expected Gu Cheng to make such a bold offer. It was like an emotional roller coaster—one moment he was a rival, the next, a potential ally.

Awkwardly, Han Geng tried to mask his delight. After a moment, he forced himself to offer a half-hearted protest. “Cheng-ge… don’t you want to become famous? You’ve been training here for a year and a half, worked so hard… Don’t you want to debut as a singer?”

“Better the head of a chicken than the tail of an ox. My dream was always to debut solo, but the way the company’s run these past two years, I don’t see it happening.” Gu Cheng leaned on the rooftop railing, gazing into the distance. “But that’s not important. The key thing is, my father passed away last year and left some debt. A few days ago, my aunt back home called—said the creditors were sending gangsters after my family. The interest is piling up. I can’t let my family be threatened… Lend me 500,000 yuan for two years. I’ll quit and give you the opportunity.”

His father had indeed died in a car accident a year and a half ago, leaving some debts. It made for a good excuse.

He actually wanted to say just one year, since he was sure he could multiply the money several times over within that time, but worried it sounded unrealistic, so he said two.

“Five hundred thousand?” Han Geng, who’d just thought he’d lucked into a windfall, was stunned. He blurted out, “In won?”

“Get lost! Of course in RMB! If you want to pay in won, then make it a hundred million!” Gu Cheng snapped, feeling almost insulted.

Was he being made fun of? Five hundred thousand won was only a few thousand yuan—he wasn’t begging for pocket change.

“But a hundred million? At the exchange rate, five hundred thousand RMB isn’t even close to a hundred million won…” Han Geng muttered, his hopes dashed. So there really was no such thing as a free lunch.

Gu Cheng pressed on, “Does it sound like a lot? Think about it—at this point, you and I are the only eligible Chinese trainees. If I drop out, your chances double. If you become even half as famous as Ahn Chil-hyun, you’ll make that back tenfold. Isn’t this opportunity worth a hundred million won? I take the money and leave, no questions asked. Besides, I’ll pay you back in the future. Even if cash is tight, you can borrow from friends or family. Can’t you scrape it together?”

It was only March, not hot, but Han Geng broke out in a cold sweat. He backed away step by step, finally stammering, “But even if we compete fairly, I still have a good shot! I think you just know you can’t beat me, so you’re pretending to offer to quit for money. Besides, you hurt your leg yesterday—maybe it’ll affect your performance.”

In short, Han Geng didn’t trust Gu Cheng’s word. After all, Gu Cheng had nothing, and a promise to pay back in two years meant little.

Gu Cheng’s expression turned cold.

Han Geng wasn’t wrong. Their singing, dancing, looks, and physique were evenly matched; Gu Cheng couldn’t guarantee victory.

It was clear: unless he overwhelmed Han Geng with ability, there was no deal to be made. If Han Geng thought he was just bluffing, he’d be lucky to get even 100,000.

“Fine, then there’s nothing more to say. Let’s see how things go in a few days—there’s still half a month until the selection ends.” Gu Cheng thought to himself that the recorder he ordered online wouldn’t arrive for a week, so he wasn’t in a hurry. He’d use the time to prove his abilities.

He turned to leave, pulling out two cigarettes and slipping them into Han Geng’s pocket.

“Think it over. This brand helps you keep cool—remember to crack the crush before lighting up.”

Han Geng watched Gu Cheng’s retreating figure, his feelings a tangled knot.

How was it that, after Gu Cheng’s fall and brief coma yesterday, he seemed like a completely different person? That cold, meticulous aura was almost suffocating.