Chapter Thirty-Two: Everyone Present Here Is Trash

At eight o'clock in the morning, the office of the Junjie Classic Recital Show production team was already bustling with activity.

Hua Qinqin pushed open the glass door, and the rich aroma of coffee greeted her. Her workstation was by the window, where sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting slender beams across her desk. She set down her bag and powered on her computer.

The moment the screen lit up, a flood of emails surged forth, threatening to drown her world. Hua Qinqin took a sip of coffee with an impassive face, the bitter taste spreading across her tongue. She was long since accustomed to this routine—so much so that she felt almost numb.

She scrolled through her inbox, beginning to sift through the messages. Though the program boasted a “nationwide” search for contestants, in reality, none of the sects could be too far from Shanghai. The reason was simple: this season’s champion had already been decided.

The Miao Jing Pavilion, seventh on the Shanghai Demon Expulsion App’s peak rankings and known publicly as an all-female sect, was the show’s main sponsor. Their funding wasn’t charity—it was to make Wen Xinyao, their young disciple, a star. The other seven sects were destined to play supporting roles.

Since they were merely there to make up the numbers, naturally the show couldn’t risk inviting any famous out-of-town sects. If someone with more talent than Wen Xinyao accidentally overshadowed her, it would be a disaster.

Hua Qinqin understood all too well; she could only select contestants from small, local sects. Her mouse glided across the screen—emails were opened and closed in quick succession.

Suddenly, an email from the Qingyun Sect caught her attention. She opened the attachment, and a photograph sprang into view. The woman in the photo had features as exquisite as a painting and carried herself with impressive poise. Hua Qinqin’s gaze lingered on the image for a few seconds before she glanced at the accompanying file: Liu Shuangling, age nineteen, disciple of the Qingyun Sect.

A faint smile touched her lips. With that face, the show was sure to attract a wave of online attention. Without hesitation, Hua Qinqin clicked “approve,” adding Liu Shuangling’s name to the contestant list, and continued searching for the next “lucky one.”

…

On October nineteenth, early in the morning, a crowd had already gathered outside the Shanghai Literary Museum.

The Junjie Classic Recital Show’s live broadcast was scheduled for nine o’clock, timed for the weekend to ensure everyone was off work and free to watch. The Songhe Studio on the museum’s west side, second floor, had been rented as the competition venue.

Before dawn, the production team was already hard at work. They moved equipment, adjusted devices, and strove to finish all preparations before nine.

When Liu Shuangling arrived, the scene was still in the throes of frantic setup. A staff member hurried over, handed her a placard with the number eight, then pointed toward the lounge. “Please wait in the lounge.”

Meanwhile, Bai Yujing, Tiya, and the others were directed to the audience seats. The show had prepared a separate lounge for each contestant to prevent them from meeting in advance and sizing up each other’s spiritual power—otherwise, it would ruin the suspense.

Liu Shuangling sat in a chair in the lounge, eyes closed in thought. She needed to devise how, during the competition, she could best project an air of arrogance and dominance—enough to attract the enmity of all the other sects and, at the same time, rivet the online audience’s attention.

Time ticked by, and before she knew it, it was already nine o’clock. Yet Liu Shuangling made no move to rise; she remained seated.

Shortly, a hurried knocking came at the door.

“Contestant Eight, it’s your turn! Hurry!”

The staff member’s voice came muffled through the door.

“All right.”

Liu Shuangling rose and stepped out.

…

Inside the Songhe Studio, dazzling lights bathed the stage in brilliance. The live broadcast camera focused tightly on center stage, where seven contestants came up one by one, explaining their thoughts on the competition and reasons for participating.

Wen Xinyao wore a number three tag at her waist, her face bearing a gentle smile as she tried to project warmth for the camera. In truth, she was already impatient and just wanted this farce to end. As a favored daughter of the heavens, she had no desire to breathe the same air as these stepping stones.

“And now, let’s welcome Contestant Number Eight from the Qingyun Sect—Liu Shuangling!”

The female host’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers.

Bang!

White smoke suddenly billowed from either side of the entryway. Liu Shuangling strode onto the stage with an unhurried gait.

She wasn’t wearing the Qingyun Sect’s uniform, but instead appeared in casual attire: a warm yellow long-sleeved T-shirt adorned with a chrysanthemum pattern—so exuberant, it seemed like a brand-new breed, “Bighead Chrysanthemum.” Her light blue jeans, hugging her full curves, delivered the visual impact of yoga pants.

The livestream chat instantly erupted:

“Oh my god, I’m in love—who cares about gender at this point!”

“That face, with a figure like that? She’s unbeatable. She’s my champion, I’m calling it now!”

“Hail to the Milk Sect! I’ll always love Milk Yao!”

“Count me in, brother!”

A flash of amazement flickered in the host’s eyes as she approached with a beaming smile. “Miss Liu, what motivated you to participate in the Junjie Classic Recital Show?”

Liu Shuangling smiled faintly, her tone calm yet full of confidence. “Naturally—to win the championship.”

The host’s professional smile didn’t waver. “Oh? It seems Miss Liu is quite sure of herself.”

“Of course.” Liu Shuangling’s gaze swept over the seven contestants beside her. “Our Qingyun Sect is different from other sects. We accept only the elite, not trash.”

She deliberately emphasized the last few words, her glance landing pointedly on the seven.

Among the four men and three women, a man nearly six foot three instantly leapt to his feet in outrage. “Why are you looking at me? Are you calling me trash?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand—I don’t mean you specifically.” Liu Shuangling’s smile never faltered. Beneath her arched brows, her phoenix eyes glinted with open disdain. “I mean, everyone here is trash.”

The other contestants’ expressions soured at once.

The host nearly lost her composure, thinking to herself: Seriously? An unknown Qingyun Sect—who gave you the nerve to say that?

The barrage of comments in the livestream grew only livelier.

Setting aside the few clueless viewers, most understood that the show was designed to showcase the disciples of influential sects. Still, they watched because they knew these disciples were the real deal—true prodigies.

“Qingyun Sect? Never heard of it, but Liu the God just nailed the trash talk—she’s my new champion of insults!”

“Milk Yao: I’m here to win. Liu the God: I’m here to roast everyone.”

“I hereby declare Liu the God this year’s undisputed Queen of Banter—who dares challenge her?”

In the audience, Tiya watched the bullet comments scrolling past, a smile tugging at her lips.

As expected of Senior Sister—a few simple words, and already she’s drawn the ire of every sect and captured all the online buzz.

She stole a glance at Bai Yujing beside her.

His expression was as serene as ever, calm as a still lake—not angry in the slightest. After becoming sect leader, it was clear: his impassivity was simply natural.

“So that’s how it is,” Bai Yujing mused inwardly, guessing Liu Shuangling’s intentions for joining the show, yet without annoyance.

Boasting without strength is empty talk; with strength, it’s just stating the facts.

With him leading the Qingyun Sect, there was no title under the heavens they could not bear.