Chapter 5: Simply Unstoppable

As the evening self-study session neared its end, Han Geng from the neighboring training room found an excuse to wander over, pretending to chat idly with someone while actually sneaking glances at Gu Cheng’s performance. Gu Cheng paid it no mind. His progress was genuine, not the result of cheating.

When two people compete over who has more willpower to lose weight or who takes more steps each day, wearing an I-WATCH to track steps can hardly be considered cheating, can it? After all, every step was taken by the person themselves; the auxiliary system merely provided a bit of psychological encouragement.

Han Geng’s face paled, but he said nothing.

The next day, training resumed, and Gu Cheng decided to stoke the flames one last time: “If I can get my Moonwalk skill to some level of proficiency today, Han Geng will surely surrender on the spot.”

With this mindset, Gu Cheng trained just as fiercely as the day before, practicing tirelessly all morning. At first, his “experience bar” soared upward, but as he neared the “passing mark,” it suddenly began to slow. Dozens of repetitions yielded no progress at all, as if he’d hit a bottleneck.

He decided to rest and “look inward,” examining the state of his mind.

Some things cannot be rushed.

“Moonwalk skill integrated proficiency 55%, up 20 percentage points in 24 hours—all completion data referenced against template teaching videos. For more detailed comparison, please input more comprehensive sample data to the brain.”

After a long while in introspection, this “subtitle” appeared in his mind.

A slight shock ran through Gu Cheng’s heart—he knew where the problem lay. It seemed that just learning from a single teaching video had brought him as far as possible.

In his previous life, after a decade’s use of the “auxiliary learning bio-CPU,” he knew that device inside and out. When the host continued practicing but ceased to improve, it would issue a warning.

The experience was much like playing an online game: if you keep killing enemies but your experience bar doesn’t move, the system reminds you the monsters are too low-level to grant experience anymore. To keep leveling up, you need stronger foes.

Training skills in real life is the same. Repeating what you already know, lying in comfort, brings no improvement.

After sorting through his thoughts, a conclusion surfaced in Gu Cheng’s mind.

“Please seek a better, more specific learning target to complete the Moonwalk skill.”

A smile played at his lips. Picking up his jacket, he walked to the neighboring practice room to observe.

Upon entering, several fellow trainees greeted him with friendly pats on the shoulder.

“Cheng, taking a break? You’ve been making amazing progress these past two days!”

“Oh, I just happened to have some insights,” he replied modestly, returning each greeting while his gaze swept the room, focusing especially on those practicing the Moonwalk.

“Target: Moonwalk skill assessment… Proficiency 65%, superior to host, but the gap is slight; not worth learning from.”

“Target two: Moonwalk skill assessment… Proficiency 43%, worthless.”

“Target three: Moonwalk skill assessment… Proficiency 88%, highly valuable for imitation.”

Eighty-eight percent! That’s impressive.

His eyes landed on the youth at the far right—wasn’t that his other roommate, Zheng Yunhao? Gu Cheng approached him openly, patting him on the shoulder. “Yunhao, could I ask you about two moves?”

“Huh? Sure, Cheng, go ahead…” Zheng Yunhao, only fourteen, still seemed genuinely respectful toward Gu Cheng—perhaps because people from Dongyi placed great stock in seniority. He answered any question without reservation.

In learning, there is no distinction of age or status; those who know should teach. Since Zheng Yunhao specialized in street dance, Gu Cheng saw no shame in learning from him.

“It’s these two moves from the video—and that one, too. Could you show me more specifically?”

“Of course.” Zheng Yunhao readily agreed and demonstrated several rounds. Gu Cheng observed carefully, asking questions and adjusting his internal criteria as he went.

“New practice methods and evaluation standards acquired—Moonwalk skill mastery cap raised to 80%.”

At long last, this prompt echoed in his mind.

Gu Cheng was now certain of success. He thanked Zheng Yunhao and began practicing diligently at the side. Whenever something seemed off, he’d have Yunhao demonstrate again for comparison.

Effort alone isn’t enough; one must also use the right methods. Unfortunately, most learners in the real world don’t grasp this truth, wasting immense time on “gray-named monsters.”

For instance, in class, countless students listen as teachers standardize lessons for the average, but most of that content is redundant for the top students, wasting their time. Or when students endlessly grind through problems they already know how to solve, squandering energy rather than identifying what they truly need to work on.

If a struggling student wonders why, despite their efforts, their results lag far behind those who seem to breeze through, it’s most likely because their “training time” is spent on gray-named monsters. If someone could make their learning as efficient as leveling up in a game—never wasting time on low-level monsters, changing maps the moment progress slows—then their speed of improvement would be truly terrifying.

Gu Cheng’s breakthrough now was exactly this. He had no doubt that one day of smart practice would yield more than a week of mindless grind for others.

“How is Gu Cheng so fierce? His progress is lightning-fast.” A group of trainees, also preparing for the selection, watched in awe.

“So tall, so cool, so powerful. He’s got such a masculine vibe.” Even a few passing female trainees sneaked glances, their hearts inexplicably stirred.

Even Miss An, who came to inspect, frequently cast approving looks his way.

“This kid should make it this time.”

“He must be on some kind of blue pill—his level-up speed is unstoppable.”

Everyone looked on with envy and amazement.

But Gu Cheng had no time for their admiration. He’d entered a state akin to a leveling maniac at an internet café—nothing else in the world mattered.

…

At last, Han Geng’s psychological defenses crumbled. He knew that with his rival’s explosive progress, unless he resorted to backroom deals, his own prospects were bleak.

He had no choice but to call home and ask his family to raise money. Han Geng’s father was alarmed at the news and booked a flight himself, determined to help negotiate.

Gu Cheng was unafraid of negotiation; each day he trained just as hard, showing complete confidence. Still, he made some preparations behind the scenes—for he understood that persuading a stubborn outsider sometimes required blunt, forceful terms.

On Saturday evening, Han Geng and his father invited Gu Cheng to dinner under false pretenses, and Gu Cheng gladly accepted.

When Han’s father set eyes on Gu Cheng, he was astonished by the youth’s appearance, but even more unsettled by the deep, keen glint in Gu Cheng’s eyes. How could such a handsome young man possess eyes so profound and blue, as if they held the singularity of a cosmic explosion—immeasurably deep?

Gu Cheng was perfectly at ease. He greeted them first. “Uncle Han, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I suppose you’ve thought it through and flown over to deliver my money?”

Han’s father bristled at the bold opening. “Young man, don’t go too far!”

“Too far? Didn’t your son tell you? My skills have already far surpassed his. If I don’t withdraw, he has no chance.”

Han’s father slammed the table. “That’s not worth a hundred million yen! The gap isn’t as wide as you claim. I did my homework: before you joined the company, you were just an ordinary high schooler. My son Geng has trained in the arts since childhood and had a better reputation before you even joined! You think the coaches won’t consider these outside factors?”

The blow rattled some dust from the table.

Gu Cheng found it rather amusing. He hadn’t even pressed his advantage before the other party blundered into his sights.

Calmly, he raised his slender arm, waving it before him as if seriously sweeping away the dust.

“Thank you for bringing that up—I was just about to mention it myself.” As he spoke, Gu Cheng pulled several sheets from his folder—printouts of electronic newspapers and web pages.

“Before coming to Dongyi, Han Geng participated in some low-tier variety programs at the Central University for Nationalities and left behind quite a few interview photos, didn’t he?”

“So you know!” Han’s father’s tone remained tough, not noticing his son’s face had already gone pale from the exchange.

Gu Cheng gave a cold chuckle. “If the company truly valued those junk awards, your son wouldn’t be sweating bullets right now.”

He unceremoniously pulled out a half-empty pack of menthol cigarettes and offered one to Han’s father. “You’d better calm down.”

At last, Han’s father sensed the shift in atmosphere. Glancing at his son and seeing his pallor, uncertainty crept into his voice. “You… What are you plotting?”

“No plot,” Gu Cheng replied, flipping open a pocket-sized booklet printed with company regulations. “You probably don’t understand how to interpret an entertainment company’s rules, so let me help. For instance, this clause: ‘The company advises trainees not to participate in other entertainment publicity activities before joining.’ Do you know what that means? In plain language, the company doesn’t want trainees to have photo exposures in the media before joining.”

Han’s father, momentarily stumped, asked, “Why?”

Gu Cheng explained confidently, “Simple. For cost reasons, the company can’t afford to pay for cosmetic surgery for every trainee from a young age. Only after deciding to debut someone will they invest in enhancements. If a trainee has photos publicly available at age fifteen, the company won’t dare go too far with surgery—if those pre-op photos surface, fans will feel deceived, and the company’s reputation will suffer.

Since your son intended to join S-M, yet participated in such worthless campus competitions and left behind so many interview photos right before joining—if these reach management, how will the cosmetic surgeons dare touch his face? Would they dare alter him so much that his eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t recognize the fifteen-year-old in those photos?”

Gu Cheng paused for ten seconds, kindly giving Han’s father time to process—a lot of information to digest.

Seeing the pained look on Han’s face, Gu Cheng delivered the final blow:

“Of course, fortunately, management hasn’t discovered these yet. As long as I don’t bring it up, no one will notice.”

Gu Cheng saw utter despair in Han’s father’s eyes.

He could read the man’s thoughts as if they were written out: Was this youth really only sixteen? He seemed more a dark-hearted, cold-blooded, ruthlessly cunning devil!

Impeccable strategies, endless resourcefulness.

Han’s father was utterly outmaneuvered and fell silent.

“Given your earlier attitude, not a yen less than a hundred million! I want half the deposit by Sunday night. As for the transaction terms, as long as you agree, I’ll arrange everything. Rest assured, when I say I’ll return it within two years, I mean it.”

“Tell me the details, then,” Han’s father conceded completely. After all, he knew that if Gu Cheng withdrew, Han Geng would undoubtedly make it into HOT’s second team. In the cutthroat world of entertainment companies, for the sake of his son’s lifelong prospects, the money had to be raised at any cost.

Gu Cheng finally smiled, his expression warm and kindly.