Carl finished chewing the last bite of the spicy root, his Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't say anything.

Chen Hao tossed the skewer onto the table and slapped his thigh: "Let's go, business is more important."

The four of them got up and moved towards the main stage with the flow of people. People greeted them along the way, and Chen Hao smiled and nodded, still clutching the crumpled napkin in his hand. Susan put the remaining handicrafts into her bag, the metal flowers clinking softly against the plastic box. Nana brought up the rear, her tool bag slung over her shoulder, her steps steady.

Before I even got backstage, I could hear the noise.

"Our child has been practicing for three months! Extra practice every night!" A woman in a red vest stood in the middle of the aisle, waving her arm high. "Why should we be at the very end?"

A man wearing glasses stood opposite me, holding a printed form in his hand: "You guys were just inserted at the last minute. Our drama group was the first to sign up, and the system records it clearly. According to the rules, we should go first."

"Rules? Who made the rules?" the woman in the red vest shouted, turning around. "Everyone, be the judge, isn't it first come, first served?"

The onlookers began to discuss, some nodding, some shaking their heads. The two teams stood in two rows, face to face, neither willing to give way.

Chen Hao sighed and took a step forward.

"Alright, alright, stop yelling." He stood between the two of them, spreading his arms wide. "You're making me want to throw up the food I just ate."

The woman in the red vest glared at him: "Who are you? Is it any of your business?"

"If I don't care, who will?" Chen Hao pulled out his phone and waved it. "I'm in charge of this event scheduling board now, so tell me, do you think I have any say in it?"

The bespectacled man glanced at his phone screen, his brow furrowing: "Are you the person in charge who's temporarily in charge?"

"I guess so." Chen Hao grinned. "I was planning to lie down for a while after dinner, but I'm unlucky and have to come out and play peacemaker."

Nana stepped forward, pointed her finger in the air, and a projection unfolded—an electronic registration timeline. Blue bars were arranged from top to bottom, with a timestamp accurate to the second next to each team's name.

“The drama group submitted their applications at 9:03 a.m., and the dance group at 11:45 a.m.,” she said. “The system recorded them automatically without human intervention.”

The woman in the red vest stared at the projector, her neck flushed: "So what? Do you know how hard we worked to prepare? The kids were practicing the moves in the middle of the night!"

“Effort is certainly worthy of respect,” Chen Hao nodded. “But today we’re not competing to see who’s more tired; we’re here to celebrate together. If things fall apart at the start, how can we perform the rest of the show?”

The bespectacled man held onto the folder tightly, saying, "We don't want to compete either, but we can't let others be pushed back just because they registered later."

“Nobody’s going to erase your names.” Susan took a half step forward, her voice not loud. “You were the first to report, and that won’t change.”

"And the order?" the woman in the red vest pressed.

The scene fell silent for a moment.

Chen Hao scratched his head and suddenly laughed: "How about this—let's have a 'double opening'."

"Huh?" they both asked at the same time.

"You two take turns," Chen Hao gestured. "After the first act, the second act follows. The audience will vote for 'Best Opening Show,' and I've already had the certificates prepared."

The bespectacled man was stunned: "It's...that simple?"

“It’s not simple.” Chen Hao pointed to his head. “The key is that you all got exposure, so no one lost out. And the opening was lively, everyone was happy, and you can have something to say in your publicity later—'Back then, I competed on the same stage as a certain group.'”

The woman in the red vest twitched at the corner of her mouth: "You really know how to make up stories."

"This isn't made up," Chen Hao laughed. "It's just to create some topics for you guys."

Nana added: "The voting system is managed centrally by the backend. Scores are submitted anonymously, and the results are displayed in real time and cannot be tampered with."

Susan pulled a sketch from her bag: "I'll draw the certificate myself, it'll be done in five minutes. What kind of design do you want? Stars? A little spaceship? Or your theater company's logo?"

The bespectacled man glanced down at his folder, then looked up at the other team's kids, and finally breathed a sigh of relief: "This... will do."

"Wait a minute." The woman in the red vest hadn't given in yet. "What if the vote difference is too big? Wouldn't that look bad?"

"That means the audience prefers the other side," Chen Hao said, shrugging. "Art has no standard answer. Are you willing to accept honest feedback?"

She bit her lip and didn't say anything.

Chen Hao turned around and tapped a video playback button on his phone. The video showed drama students rehearsing in an empty classroom; some were throwing chairs, others were forgetting their lines and having to start over. The time stamp indicated 1:17 AM.

He tapped again, switching to the monitor of the dance team's training room—several children were squatting on the ground rubbing their legs, the coach was adjusting the formation, and the lights were on until late at night.

“You’re all working hard,” Chen Hao said in a lower voice. “One of you gets up early, and the other stays up late. Nobody’s slacking off.”

He turned off the video and looked at the two of them: "Holidays aren't about arranging seating; they're about showing how seriously we take each other. The order can be changed, but no one can deny the sentiment behind it."

The air was still for a few seconds.

The bespectacled man closed the folder first: "How about... we try this method?"

The woman in the red vest stared at him for two seconds, then suddenly laughed: "You're pretty quick to back down."

“I’m not admitting defeat,” he said. “I just think that instead of wasting time here, I should go up and put on a good show.”

“Okay.” She held out her hand. “Let’s start together.”

Their hands clasped together, and scattered applause rang out around them.

Susan immediately took out a pen and sketched on a piece of cardstock. A blue vine unfolded around the border, with the words "Best Opening Show Nomination" written in the center.

"Not formal enough?" she asked, looking up.

"That's enough." The bespectacled man took it and glanced at it. "It has more warmth than those printed ones."

Nana returned to the screen and quickly swiped her finger. The voting interface had been generated, with options for two team names and a countdown bar below—ten minutes until the audition.

Carl stood at the edge of the stage, staring at the support frame connections. He bent down to touch the base screws, then looked up at the crossbeam.

"Those three fixing points over there need to be tightened again," he told the staff. "Someone bumped into something just now, and the threads are a bit loose."

The man quickly ran over to check.

Chen Hao walked to the sound station and held up the dispatch board: "Prepare for sound check - the first round will begin immediately."

The sound engineer nodded and pressed the button. The speaker emitted a short "beep".

Backstage was bustling again. The two teams gathered separately, some warming up, others tidying up their costumes.

Susan handed the completed award certificate to the person in charge and helped a girl fix her crooked hair clip.

Nana stood in front of the control panel, confirming that the voting channel was open. Her finger hovered over the send button, waiting for the activation command.

Carl crouched on the side of the stage, shining a flashlight on the bottom structure while muttering something.

Chen Hao stood beside the curtain, holding the napkin in his hand, slowly crumpling it into a ball.

In the distance came the rhythmic beat of drums during a rehearsal: boom, boom, boom.

He looked up at the sky.

A crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight slanted down, illuminating the ground in the center of the stage.

A metal reflector was blown by the wind and gently flipped over.