Live-streaming-in-Progress

“Is Teacher Gu not online yet?”

In the civil service prep group chat, students were practicing questions while constantly checking the livestream app.

It had been four days since Gu Yi’s last stream. The provincial exam paper he covered last time had already been thoroughly absorbed by his viewers.

Unlike other tutors who focused on shortcuts and gimmicks, Gu Yi was a principles + technique kind of teacher. His approach might not be flashy, but it helped students understand the “why” behind every answer. And for that reason, many found his methods easier to grasp.

“No joke, ever since I started watching Teacher Gu, I’m getting five more questions right on the logic test.”
“He’s basically the Shaolin master of the logical reasoning world.”
“That Shaolin master’s busy prepping for the square dance finals right now.”
“Teaches like a pro, looks like a model, and dances too? How is that fair to us mere mortals?”

With the provincial exam drawing near, most students had plateaued. Their scores on practice tests had stabilized, and they’d already drilled the official papers. Going back to older tests didn’t feel useful anymore.

At this stage, they’d rather hear some fresh strategies—even just to break the monotony.

Then, just as everyone was nodding off over their mock papers, someone dropped a screenshot into the group:

“New gig for Teacher Gu!”

It was a leaked cast list for a variety show called Battle of the Stars, and sure enough—Gu Yi’s name was on it.

Most of the group already knew Gu Yi was a member of idol group Vic, but he’d always been so professional during streams that it created a kind of whiplash:

Something about this just doesn’t add up.

“I’m dying to know what Teacher Gu is like as an idol.”
“If he’s on the show, he’s my one and only pick.”
“People are saying Battle of the Stars is kinda low-budget, but looking at the cast list, these contestants are pretty attractive.”
“The show airs in July, right after the provincial exam—bros, let’s all tune in!”

Though the show didn’t have the same buzz as the top-tier survival programs, it was Jiangshi TV’s first foray into the genre. Some of the contestants were semi-known trainees, and it was getting light traction in fan circles.

“Ugh, so many washed-up idols coming back. Do they not know they’re irrelevant now?”
“The judges can’t hold a candle to Idol Peak. That show got A-listers. This one’s pulling from the B-list at best.”
“Also—what is going on with these official headshots? Do they actually think they look like that?”
“+1. The amount of Photoshop abuse is criminal. Do they think we don’t deserve to look at actual good-looking guys?”
“Low-key, there is someone who looks worse in their headshot than in real life…”
“Already know who you’re talking about.”
“+1.”

Among the flood of confusion, the first commenter dropped a single phrase before disappearing:
“Not recommending.”

But a kind soul still shared a link to Gu Yi’s now-famous square dance video.

“So clean and sharp! Can someone actually look this good without makeup?”
“Resident of his complex here: he looks even better in real life.”
“Compared the headshot and the dance clip—he’s seriously underselling himself. If I had that face, I’d plaster my tombstone with selfies.”
“+1 +1 +1.”
“Still don’t get why he ever starved himself to skeleton status.”

Before Gu Yi had even begun promoting the show, curious netizens had already tracked down his Weibo and started following him.

Once he’d wrapped up his square dance responsibilities, Gu Yi finally found time to post the official promo photo—a shot he’d taken at the local photo studio. He sent it to the production team, but whatever filter they slapped on it had completely distorted his features.

It was the same photo used on his community culture ambassador ID. One shot, many uses. Efficient.

That evening, the local community account posted a press release:
“Hecheng Community Hosts Cultural Ambassador Induction Ceremony”

In the group photo, Gu Yi stood front and centre—tall, striking, effortlessly photogenic. His ID card, featuring that same headshot, was also used in the post.

The staffer who managed the community’s social media—a young woman—had just been admiring how good-looking their newest ambassador was. Then, scrolling through Weibo, she saw that exact same headshot… in a post by an entertainment blogger covering Battle of the Stars.

Her reaction: “…”

Talk about budget-friendly.

Hecheng Community was in the city centre, and its official WeChat account had tens of thousands of followers. When it posted a rare handsome face, residents eagerly shared it in their neighbourhood groups. Word spread fast. Soon enough, even people on the Battle of the Stars production team took notice.

And just like that, the community’s press release also hit the trending page.

“I’m dying—Battle of the Stars contestants don’t even get treated as well as community culture ambassadors.”
“Whoever edited the show’s promo photos needs to be stopped. Look what they did to that man’s jawline!”
“Just look at the community post—clean, simple, authentic. And he still stands out.”
“Bet that photo was taken at the studio next to Hecheng—20 yuan, comes with one-inch and two-inch prints.”

Before the show had even aired, the public already knew: one of the contestants was hot.

Survival shows always used pretty faces for bait. Didn’t matter if they crumbled the moment they started dancing—getting people to click was the whole point.

In the preview trailer, there were sweeping shots of 99 trainees battling it out, dramatic voiceovers like “Forging a new generation of idols!”—and then the reveal: their main visual had first gone viral from square dancing, and his headshot was a dual-use ID photo.

Honestly? Kind of charming.

Like the contrast between New York-Presbyterian Hospital and a rural Washington credit union.

“At least now we know Gu Yi’s face is real. No way the community would lie to us.”

After trending all night, Gu Yi woke up the next morning to a flood of identical Moments captions in his WeChat feed:

“Our neighborhood’s finest young man!”
“The city’s most handsome cultural ambassador! 👍👍”
“Low-key, classy, talented. Excellent choreographer. Please continue supporting our dance team 🙇”

Gu Yi: “…”

You know what? He was getting used to the cringe.

His heart? Calm as still water.

After his name hit the trending searches, Gu Yi’s popularity spiked—and now that he hadn’t streamed for several days, many fans were beginning to worry.

Had he forgotten about the lecture series?

Previously, he’d walked viewers through one full provincial civil service exam paper and had promised to cover a national exam paper next. In the eyes of his livestream audience—who were mostly test takers—they were hoping he’d eventually work through all the real papers used in the civil service system. But Gu Yi had his own priorities: in terms of question quality, the national exam ranked highest, followed by provincial ones. The specialized local-level “public institution” tests were, in his opinion, too niche and not worth streaming.

So fans were eagerly waiting for that national exam breakdown.

Gu Yi had been busy lately, but he hadn’t forgotten his promise.

Dancing, idol training—none of it came naturally to him. But teaching? That was his element. Whatever happened, he was determined to help his followers gain those crucial extra points.

As soon as he went live, fans received platform notifications.

[Teacher Gu is online!]

Their cries of “Teacher Gu!” were full of genuine emotion.

[Cheering for Teacher Gu!]
[Teacher Gu, you’re my pick!]

Gu Yi, deadpan: “You don’t need to pick me. You need the examiner to pick you.”

Fans: “…”

Naturally, Orange Peel was the first to show up in the chat again. But she found herself immediately outnumbered by a crowd of diehard exam grinders, all waxing poetic about Gu Yi. Listening to them swoon using over-the-top, flowery language, she wanted to scream:
Wake up! You’re supposed to be the country’s future section chiefs, department heads, and bureau directors! Where is your dignity?

Answer: It was gone.

Just before the stream started, Gu Yi’s phone buzzed. It was another message from Cheng Yan.

[Gu Yi, I only asked you to apologize last time because Shao told me to. The Battle of the Stars slot was always meant for you. Jin Yang was never in the running.]

Gu Yi ignored it.

Since he’d been added to the cast list, his Vic groupmates—some of whom hadn’t contacted him in years—had suddenly remembered his WeChat. His inbox was now filled with requests to reconnect.

He left them all unread.

But once the lesson began, Gu Yi became focused and composed again. He quickly reviewed the concepts from last time, then introduced new ones.

Watching him in teacher mode, fans found the contrast even more jarring.
On one hand: This guy is ridiculously good-looking.
On the other: How does any human come up with such god-tier problem-solving methods?

Some couldn’t resist Googling.

Gu Yi hadn’t had a Baidu Baike (Chinese Wikipedia) entry before, but now that he was trending, someone had created one—and it was surprisingly thorough.

Then they saw his educational background: High school.

Fans: “…”

And just like that, they were reminded that the human race is not created equal.

“For this visual pattern question, you’ll want to sum the number of lines and points in each figure.”

Gu Yi’s explanation was clear and focused. The fans listened with equal intensity. Despite the stream lasting three full hours, not a single person seemed to notice the time.

In the final stretch of the session, Gu Yi switched from lessons to Q&A.

With the provincial exam in Province C scheduled for the end of June, he prepped another three to four sessions. Each one attracted more viewers than the last, and the questions kept growing in complexity. Gu Yi spent hours thinking through solutions to give the most accurate breakdowns.

[Teacher Gu is a beast!]
[He’s too OP. Please accept my kneecaps…]
[Take mine too!]
[Let’s trade knees for his brain. I only need half.]
[Spare some for me!]

Eventually, Gu Yi glanced at the viewer count and realized—his latest stream had over fifty thousand people watching live.

That particular stream aired on a Thursday. With the exam happening on Saturday, the mood in the chat had shifted—from “Teacher Gu is a legend” to a wall of desperate messages:

[I trust Gu-ge, I won’t fail!]
[Praying to the god of Gu before the exam!]

Gu Yi blinked. “Should I be lighting incense for you all?”

[If you can.]
[You should visit Lingshan Temple—it’s super effective for career blessings.]

Gu Yi figured he didn’t have any plans tomorrow—why not gather some good exam karma on their behalf?

From that moment until the end of the stream, his notification bar kept pinging with donation alerts.

[For your travel fund. Thank you for all your hard work, Teacher Gu!]

And this time, the amount of tips far exceeded anything he’d received before. While Gu Yi was still reeling from the sheer generosity of his fans—and insisting they really didn’t need to donate anymore—the livestream platform itself showed up in his DMs.