The higher-ups at Xingyao Entertainment were livid.
No one had any idea when Gu Yi had connected with someone like Sun Youming.

What did it mean for Sun Youming to personally reach out to discuss a collaboration over Gu Yi?

It meant only one thing: Gu Yi had serious potential to explode in popularity.

In this industry, any star favored by Sun Youming—weren’t they all top-tier names at their respective companies?

But Sun Youming moved too quickly. Even if he’d just hinted at his interest, Xingyao would’ve happily thrown piles of resources at Gu Yi in a heartbeat.

The executive cast a glance at Zhu Yu, who was still standing behind Shao Jing.

Sure, Zhu Yu was a popular member within Vic. But from the executive’s point of view, his return on investment was mediocre at best.

Despite receiving top exposure from Greenlime TV’s variety show, Zhu Yu hadn’t managed to convert it into film or business opportunities. The company had invested plenty in him over the years, but the payoff? Still lower than what Gu Yi had achieved with Battle of the Stars.

Success, in the end, always had a bit of fate behind it.

Zhu Yu had every resource imaginable and still didn’t make a splash. But Gu Yi?

Battle of the Stars had approached him—not the other way around. Before it aired, the show looked half-dead. Yet within just two episodes, it blew up. And Gu Yi caught Sun Youming’s eye along the way.

After a moment’s thought, the executive spoke:

“Shao Jing, from now on, you’re in charge of Zhu Yu. We’ll assign someone else to manage Gu Yi.”

As for Zhu Yu, Xingyao wasn’t planning to freeze him out completely. He still had value. But platforms like Greenlime TV? He wouldn’t be getting that kind of premium exposure anymore.

With over 200 members in Vic, promoting anyone was just a matter of choosing.

The executive laid into Shao Jing on the spot. Shao stood there, head down, silent. He didn’t even try to fight for Zhu Yu’s resources.

On the way back, Zhu Yu couldn’t hold it in anymore:

“Brother Shao, which company do you think Gu Yi signed with?”

From what the executive had said, it sounded like Gu Yi had been scouted. But then why did they mention reassigning his manager?

“Maybe he’s being benched, like Chen Zhongyao?” Zhu Yu began to speculate.

Back when Chen Zhongyao tried to break his contract, the company immediately reassigned his agent.

Gu Yi’s popularity was nothing to scoff at. If he suddenly got bold, he might actually try to leave.

But his situation wasn’t the same as Chen Zhongyao’s. The latter had been heavily promoted with big-budget investments. The execs had a right to be pissed at him.

Whatever the company had been accused of, it certainly wasn’t neglecting Chen Zhongyao.

This time, though, the top brass came down on Shao Jing. That meant one thing: they didn’t think he’d done enough for Gu Yi.

“The boss didn’t say,” Shao replied. “And without company approval, it’s not easy for Gu Yi to terminate his contract.”

Zhu Yu figured that was probably true.

Xingyao had been around for several years now. Very few artists had ever successfully broken their contracts.

The talent department’s salaries were well below industry average—but the legal team? Absolutely elite. The boss had hired multiple lawyers, sparing no expense. Their enforcement ability was among the best in the business.

If Gu Yi really managed to sign with another company, of course Zhu Yu would be envious.

But as long as Gu Yi remained under Xingyao—even with a different manager—his ceiling wouldn’t be that high. His future was still limited.

That thought brought a strange sense of relief.

So what if Gu Yi had shot to fame on Battle of the Stars? Without resources to match, he’d just fade away again eventually.

They reached the elevator. When the doors opened, standing inside was someone who made Shao Jing instantly scowl.

Liu Wei—one of Vic’s other agents and Shao Jing’s long-time rival.

She managed Team A’s Tong Shu. Zhu Yu’s initial burst of popularity had largely come from the “Remainder” CP pairing with Tong Shu. If Zhu Yu hadn’t made it, Shao Jing wouldn’t even be in the same league as Liu Wei.

“Brother Shao! What a rare sight. I haven’t even had a chance to congratulate you!”

Liu Wei, dressed in deep red heels, stood a bit taller than him as she smiled.

Shao Jing immediately felt the bad vibes. The executive’s yelling earlier hadn’t been subtle—anyone on the floor could’ve heard it.

“What’s there to congratulate?” he snapped.

“Don’t be so modest! Gu Yi just landed an amazing script—he’s on the verge of blowing up. Who in the company isn’t jealous of you?”

“Script?”

Shao Jing looked genuinely confused. Liu Wei raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t know?” she asked, surprised. “The announcement just came out.”

She pulled out her phone and opened the page.

Most of the screen was a blur, but one line stood out crystal clear:

【Casting Confirmed: A Letter on My Desk. Shen Yao – Gu Yi. Yu Ying – Qi Miao.】

Shao Jing’s mind went completely blank.

Liu Wei was still talking, but he couldn’t hear a word of it.

A Letter on My Desk—that IP was a juggernaut. The crown jewel of webnovel adaptations. And the male lead, Shen Yao? One of the most beloved character templates in web fiction.

Right now, webnovel-based dramas were all the rage. They came pre-packaged with fanbases and guaranteed viewership.

Just last year, another historical drama Scarlet Tear had blown up—until the production ruined everything. They rewrote the script, cast an actor widely deemed unattractive, and completely destroyed the once-top-tier character Lin Zheng. His popularity cratered.

With that fresh in everyone’s mind, fans of A Letter on My Desk had been anxiously guarding the adaptation, praying the same fate wouldn’t befall their favorite novel.

Luckily, the IP was snatched up by Sun Youming.

Though the casting had taken a long time, the fans weren’t worried. With Sun at the helm, there was no way he’d let the story get butchered.

And now Gu Yi was cast as Shen Yao.

Shao Jing had wondered if it was someone else with the same name—but no. If it were, Liu Wei wouldn’t have come over to “congratulate” him.

But Gu Yi wasn’t even under his management anymore.

When the boss had told him that earlier, Shao Jing hadn’t thought much of it. He was ready to focus on Zhu Yu instead.

But now…

Now, it hit him like a truck.

But…

This was A Letter on My Desk.

And the director—was Sun Youming.

In other words, barring any disasters, Gu Yi’s future was now blindingly bright.

If Shao Jing were still his manager, just the percentage cut from Gu Yi’s career would’ve been enough to let him retire early. No more begging and scraping to secure resources for his artists like a lowly servant.

Shao Jing felt like his heart was bleeding. As his brain finally began to clear, he heard Liu Wei beside him answer a call:

“President Gao, sorry—what did you just say? …You’re giving Gu Yi to me?!”

Her voice shot up an octave, and the staccato clack of her wine-red heels echoed like hammer blows on Shao Jing’s skull, leaving him dizzy and dazed.

---

【‘Casting Announced for A Letter on My Desk — Sun Youming’s Next Major Film Begins Production’】

【’Casting Choices for Sun Youming’s New Film Raise Eyebrows’】

【’Gu Yi Cast as Shen Yao: Is the Idol Era of Leading Men Finally Here?’’】

The moment the lead roles for A Letter on My Desk were revealed, the internet exploded.

Actress Qi Miao raised no concerns—she was a former child star and recent recipient of the Yunxing Award for Best Newcomer.

But Gu Yi?
An idol with virtually zero acting experience?

These days, idols were swarming into the acting world, but the results were often tragic. The more attractive ones might scrape by with praise like, “He looks good under stage lighting.”
The less fortunate? “That face looks like it was chiseled out of granite—with a jackhammer.”

Even for low-stakes idol dramas, you still needed the looks. As for slice-of-life or serious dramas? Idols trying to act often exposed all their flaws.

Naturally, the ones with the biggest objections were Shen Yao’s fans.

The production had teased half the male actors in the industry already, and the fans had rejected every one of them, insisting Shen Yao deserved the absolute best.

“Gu Yi?? Who even is that? Why does he get to play my Shen Yao?”
“I thought Xin Ruchen was a terrible choice—at least the guy can act.”
“Has Sun Youming completely lost his mind?”

While complaining, the fans simultaneously rushed to look up Gu Yi’s photos.

Most recent pics came from his performances on Battle of the Stars—particularly the iconic “Explosion” and “Devil’s Heart” stages. The heavy makeup in those looks made fans admit his face was indeed something else… but stage makeup could be deceiving.

After all, that guy from Idol X used to be hailed as a “visual god,” but on camera? That square jaw could carve bricks.

Then they found the rehearsal clips from Battle of the Stars—where Gu Yi had zero makeup on.

He was shown in deep concentration, scribbling on paper, silent and composed. Mute the video, block out the background noise, and what remained was just that breathtaking profile.

That single image felt like Shen Yao, the literary character, had walked straight out of fiction and into the real world.

They’d imagined Shen Yao a thousand ways:
Bookish.
Eyes like constellations.
Quiet.
Resolute.

In that moment, every trait seemed to perfectly align with Gu Yi.

Every other actor previously linked to the role—each one had a flaw that made fans feel something was off. But with Gu Yi… there was nothing jarring.

The avalanche of “no ugly men” comments began to vanish.
If Gu Yi was considered ugly, then the entire entertainment industry needed new mirrors.

Now the fans turned their worries toward his acting:

【“Actually… Sun Youming does have a thing for casting complete newcomers.”】
【“+1. I remember that too.”】
【“I don’t care if he can act—he looks exactly how I imagined Shen Yao.”】
【“Honestly, this might be Sun Youming’s sharpest casting choice yet.”】
【“Let’s just wait until it airs, okay?”】

The casting reveal for A Letter on My Desk sparked a fresh wave of attention for Gu Yi, and with it came a surge of viewers tuning in to Battle of the Stars’ upcoming finale.

Fans had long assumed the popularity rankings on the show were basically fixed. Ji Chi had been the centre every single round, untouchable.

At least, until last episode.

Gu Yi had ranked second.

He’d leapt from fifth to second in just one round. But moving up three places wasn’t the real shocker—what mattered was that at the top, each rank represented massive popularity gaps. Surpassing one person wasn’t easy, let alone three.

And then—right on the heels of that surge—came the casting announcement for A Letter on My Desk.

Gu Yi was now this close to first place.

Suddenly, Ji Chi’s center position didn’t look so secure anymore.

Both fanbases were bracing for war.

But according to behind-the-scenes clips released by the production team… these two weren’t rivals at all.

They got along extremely well.

Ji Chi, as centre, had the privilege to take a teammate out for dinner after the last round. He didn’t choose Xie Xingjia or Liang Mu—both from their company.
He chose Gu Yi.

They were always hanging out during practice, and even during magazine shoots, they were spotted sharing a popsicle.

A one-yuan ice pop.

No class. No idol chic. Just two guys and an old-school ice lolly.

Can someone please tell them they’re supposed to be competing?!

Come on, show a little sense of urgency!