Chapter 7 — The Beauty Drainage System

Miss Lam remained silent for two long seconds before taking a careful step backward.

“Luc Niam, this is my final warning. Stop whatever you are playing at. If you refuse, the consequences will be far beyond anything you can possibly endure.”

With that sharp threat, she spun on her heel and strode away. I leaned back against the cool surface of the hallway wall, watching her rigid silhouette dissolve into the dim shadows at the end of the corridor. Consequences? A faint, cold smile touched my lips as I wondered what kind of retribution she thought she could inflict.

Chapter 18

The promised “consequences” orchestrated by Miss Lam arrived with the swift ruthlessness of dawn the very next morning.

The training camp’s official social media channel published an abrupt announcement:

“Following careful deliberation, the production committee has decided to introduce a special ‘revival’ round for the grand finale of this season. Trainees eliminated during the third round may now receive direct coach nominations to vie for a second chance at glory.”

The comment section erupted into a storm of outrage and disbelief within seconds.

“Isn’t this just rolling out the red carpet specifically for Song Kieu Kieu?”

“It is painfully obvious. They rewrite the rules the moment their favorite loses?”

“Ah, the absolute omnipotence of capital and connections.”

Yet, scattered among the accusations, a few desperate apologists attempted damage control:

“Kieu Kieu was merely suffering from a temporary poor condition, surely there is no harm in granting her one more chance?”

“She possesses genuine talent, so what is wrong with her competing fairly in a revival match?”

True to the whispers, coach Han Tranh officially announced that afternoon that Song Kieu Kieu had secured the revival nomination. She would battle the remaining two eliminated trainees the following day for a single coveted spot. When Song Kieu Kieu reappeared in the rehearsal room, she was draped in an oversized black athletic tracksuit, her head swallowed by a deep hood and her face half-concealed behind a thick medical mask, leaving only her feverish eyes exposed. She refused to acknowledge anyone, marching straight to a secluded corner to begin her solitary practice. But the brutal truth was glaringly obvious to everyone present: her movements were agonizingly sluggish compared to her past agility, and she was forced to pause and gasp for air after every few leaps. Her physical endurance had entirely collapsed under the weight of high-intensity performance. That evening, upon returning to the dormitory, I discovered a plain white envelope resting squarely on my pillow. There was no return address. Inside lay a single, jagged scrap of paper:

“Tomorrow is the revival round. It would be in your absolute best interest to feign illness and remain absent from the venue. Otherwise, you will not survive a single day in this industry.”

I crumpled the note into a tight ball with a casual flick of my wrist and tossed it straight into the wastebasket. Then, I pulled out my phone, opened a food delivery application, and ordered a heavy portion of spicy Sichuan hotpot, doubling both the fatty beef slices and the crispy fried dough sticks.

Chapter 19

The day of the revival round arrived with a palpable tension. Far from feigning illness, I deliberately secured a seat right in the dead center of the front row of the audience. Cradled in my hands was an enormous, oversized cup of pearl milk tea, dripping with extra sugar and packed to the brim with ice cubes. As Song Kieu Kieu stepped timidly onto the bright stage, her gaze swept across the crowd and immediately locked onto me sitting directly before her. Her footsteps stumbled, halting dead in their tracks. I raised my plastic cup toward her in a mock toast and took a slow, deliberate sip through the straw. Her complexion instantly paled by another noticeable shade, transforming into a sickly, translucent white devoid of any human warmth—not the ethereal beauty of a star, but the ghastly pallor of sudden blood loss.

The rules of the revival round required a live performance evaluated through real-time audience voting. Song Kieu Kieu had chosen a slow, mournful ballad. She did not need to dance; she merely had to stand stationary under the spotlight and sing. Her voice remained inherently sweet—a trait the mysterious system had thankfully been unable to strip away from her. Yet, the fatal flaw was that this was an idol survival show, not a traditional vocal competition. The audience craved dynamic stage presence, magnetic visual charisma, and an inescapable allure that commanded every eye in the room. Instead, Song Kieu Kieu standing motionless beneath the harsh lights resembled an overinflated balloon on the verge of popping.

When her final note faded into the cavernous hall, the applause was sparse and pitifully thin. After the remaining two trainees completed their respective numbers, the voting portals officially swung open. I remained seated in the front row, directly within her field of vision, and calmly took another long pull from my milk tea. She stared at me, her painted lips trembling uncontrollably.

Five minutes later, the final voting tallies flashed across the towering LED screens. Song Kieu Kieu: Third place. Dead last. Elimination confirmed.

Hearing the verdict echo across the silent auditorium, her entire body swayed violently. The host hurried forward, offering a professional smile of feigned pity:

“Trainee Song Kieu Kieu, it is truly unfortunate—”

“No!”

She suddenly lunged forward, snatching the microphone directly from the host’s hand, her voice fracturing into a piercing, hysterical shriek.

“It was her! Luc Niam ruined me!”

She pointed a trembling, manic finger straight at me where I sat in the front row.

“She deliberately ate those things! She knew that every single time she consumed those calories, my body would expand! She is sabotaging me!”

A profound, suffocating silence descended upon the entire arena. Thirty million live-stream viewers across the country held their collective breath. Every single pair of eyes shifted from the frantic girl on stage to me, carrying a singular, unspoken judgment: she had completely lost her mind.

The host, sweating profusely, attempted to reclaim the microphone with a strained laugh:

“Trainee Song Kieu Kieu, please regain your composure—”

“I am entirely composed! Does no one believe me? Look at her! Just look!”

She bolted toward the edge of the stage, pointing wildly at the milk tea cup still resting in my hands.

“Every single time she takes a sip, I gain a pound! Look at her! Watch her drink it right now! Just look at my face!”

I remained seated comfortably, every gaze in the massive venue converging upon me. With agonizing slowness, I lifted the cup of milk tea, locked eyes with the frantic girl on stage, and sucked in another mouthful through the straw. The whole stadium held its breath. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Nothing happened. Naturally, nothing supernatural would happen immediately; the system's mysterious delays required a few hours to manifest visibly. But the oblivious audience knew nothing of this. All they perceived was a mentally unstable woman pointing hysterically at another woman’s beverage and screaming bizarre accusations.

A sudden snicker broke the silence from a remote corner of the stands. Like a raging contagion, laughter rippled outward, instantly engulfing the entire hall. Waves of roaring laughter echoed through the dome. The online live-stream chat exploded with cascading text:

【Has Song Kieu Kieu finally cracked completely? Hahahaha!】

【Someone else drinks milk tea and she gains weight??? What kind of bizarre logic is that???】

【Her mental state is deeply concerning; someone should escort her to a psychiatric ward immediately.】

【I am dying of laughter, what kind of severe persecution delusion is this?】

Standing under the blazing lights, Song Kieu Kieu absorbed the deafening mockery washing over the auditorium. The expression on her face twisted from blinding fury into utter bewilderment, and finally shattered into absolute despair. She understood then that no one would ever believe her truth. Because when spoken aloud, reality itself sounded like a cruel, absurd joke.

Stage crew members rushed up the steps, gently but firmly escorting her away from the microphone. As she was dragged backward into the wings, she kept twisting her neck to stare at me, her lips moving frantically in a silent chant:

“It was her… It truly was her…”

I sat quietly in my seat, swallowed the final drop of milk tea, and let out a soft, contented sigh.

Chapter 20

The clipped video footage of Song Kieu Kieu’s spectacular public breakdown during the broadcast surged to the very top of the national trending search charts by nightfall.

“Song Kieu Kieu suffers a complete mental collapse during live broadcast.”

“Someone else drinks milk tea, I gain weight.”

“The most absurd defense statement in the history of survival shows.”

A torrential flood of derivative video edits, satirical memes, and biting jokes saturated every corner of the internet. The hard-earned reputation she had meticulously cultivated over three months evaporated overnight, reducing her to a national laughingstock.

The following day, Miss Lam released a heavily polished official statement:

“Due to overwhelming professional pressure in recent times, trainee Song Kieu Kieu’s physical and mental well-being has experienced a temporary decline. Effective immediately, she will suspend all scheduled activities to focus entirely on rest and recovery. We sincerely thank everyone for their continued concern.”

Not a single soul expressed sympathy in the comment sections. The space was entirely dominated by merciless mockery.

“Rest? More like a permanent stay in a psychiatric institution.”

“Does immense pressure automatically cause someone to lose their mind? I experience immense pressure daily, so why hasn’t anyone told me that drinking water makes me gain weight?”

“This single incident has provided enough comedic material to last a lifetime.”

I lay stretched out across my dormitory bed, lazily scrolling through the endless cascade of ridiculing comments. Resting right beside my hand was a half-eaten bag of spicy dried snacks. Suddenly, glowing ethereal characters materialized in the empty air before my eyes:

【System notification: The social reputation value of the primary target host has plummeted to zero. The automated beauty-drain system is entering an enforced hibernation state due to the host’s severe psychological instability.】

【Thank goodness! The system has finally gone to sleep! The female protagonist can no longer siphon anything from us!】

【Yet the stolen beauty attributes remain stored within the protagonist’s physical vessel; surely they will be automatically returned, right?】

【System clarification: All transferred beauty metrics will automatically revert to their original source within seventy-two hours.】

Reading those gleaming words, I abruptly sat upright. Seventy-two hours. In exactly three days, every trace of my stolen youth, radiance, and beauty would flow back to where it belonged. And everything Song Kieu Kieu had illicitly plundered would vanish into thin air. She would inevitably revert to the ordinary, sallow-skinned, heavily built girl she had been three months prior.

No. Her condition would likely be far worse than before.

Because throughout three months of enduring the reverse-transfer effect, her physical body had accumulated massive quantities of dormant toxins and stagnant fats. The moment the system plunged into hibernation, those grotesque anomalies would not simply disappear; they would remain permanently trapped inside her corrupted frame.