“Xiao Youzi?”

Yan Junze asked with a trace of uncertainty.

At the sound of his voice, the actress clutching her laptop quickly set it down, bowed politely, and nervously introduced herself. “Senior Yan, my name is Tang Yuan.”

Her voice just sounded a little similar.

Yan Junze frowned slightly and walked over to his manager.

The scene had taken over an hour to film, and Cheng Youran was feeling a bit worn out. She sat back in her chair with her eyes closed to rest. Xiao Su brought her a bottle of water, and she unscrewed the cap, gulping down several large sips.

“Huh? A bunch of fans just showed up.”

Xiao Su glanced toward a city bus pulling into the set. Around twenty young men stepped off, each holding colorful light sticks and cheering props.

“I thought visits were strictly prohibited?”

Cheng Youran took a sip from her water bottle and glanced over. The group seemed to be Tang Yuan’s fans, waving excitedly at her as she sat on a bench.

Due to the tight filming schedule and to maintain order—especially after the incident with the Fenghua production team—visiting the set had been strictly prohibited. Even Yan Junze’s fans hadn’t made any surprise visits.

“Sorry, no visitors are allowed on set,” Fang Liuyun said as he directed the crew moving equipment, then walked over to the bus.

“We just wanted to take a look. We won’t interfere with the filming.”

“Yeah, and we brought some gifts for Yuan Yuan. Could you please pass them along?”

Fang Liuyun’s expression remained cool as he replied politely, “I’m sorry, but as I said, visits aren’t allowed. Please head back.”

Just as he finished speaking, murmurs of discontent rose from the crowd behind him. The voices weren’t loud, but Cheng Youran caught them clearly.

“He’s from the Lu Corporation, isn’t he? No wonder he’s so bossy.”

“They probably think Cheng Youran’s fans didn’t show up, and now there are dozens of us here for Yuan Yuan—makes her look bad.”

“Ugh, women like her are the worst. Acting like she’s some Empress Dowager Cixi or something. Why doesn’t she just bury herself with the past while she’s at it?”

Cheng Youran understood fans wanting to see their idols, but hearing those words still stung. She frowned slightly.

Fang Liuyun, still polite but with a noticeable chill in his tone, said, “We’re on a tight shooting schedule. No visits are allowed. Please leave the set.”

Cheng Youran stood up from her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone raising their phone, clearly recording. If this kept going, who knew what kind of mess it could turn into.

She took a quick walk around the set. The location in Lin City was a repurposed high school, and it took some effort before she finally spotted Tang Yuan standing beneath a basketball hoop.

Tang Yuan was staring in the direction of the bus, biting her lower lip, clearly deep in thought.

“Hi, Tang Yuan,” Cheng Youran said as she walked up and extended her hand.

Normally, a production team would arrange for the cast to get acquainted beforehand, but Shared Life was on such a tight schedule that they skipped that entirely. Up until now, Cheng Youran was still struggling to match names to faces.

Maybe her sudden appearance startled Tang Yuan, because at the sound of her voice, the girl flinched slightly and lowered her head, avoiding eye contact.

Shy, maybe, Cheng Youran thought. She withdrew her hand, skipped the small talk, and got straight to the point. “You’re aware that the crew doesn’t allow visitors, right?”

“Yes.”

Tang Yuan gave a small nod.

“Well, your fans showed up anyway. They’re refusing to leave, and it’s starting to cause a scene. Could you try calming things down?”

Tang Yuan stayed quiet, head still bowed.

Cheng Youran wondered if she’d been too harsh. Softening her tone, she added, “I’m not blaming you.”

“My manager will take care of it.”

Tang Yuan finally spoke. Her voice was so soft it barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough to ease Cheng Youran’s concerns.

She gave Tang Yuan a gentle smile and turned to leave.

But to her surprise, Tang Yuan suddenly called out, “Senior… do you like playing games?”

Cheng Youran paused and turned back to look at her. Tang Yuan’s chest rose and fell with each breath—she looked nervous. Her voice was soft. “I actually enjoy gaming quite a bit.”

“Then… could we play together sometime?”

Tang Yuan’s face had gone noticeably pale, and a sheen of sweat dotted her forehead. She forced a smile.

“Sure,” Cheng Youran replied with an encouraging smile of her own before turning and walking back toward Fang Liuyun.

Something about Tang Yuan felt… off.

She pulled Fang Liuyun aside and asked quietly, “Do you have Tang Yuan’s file? Can you get me a copy?”

“I’ve got a copy on my phone—I’ll send it to you. The hard copy’s back in the office,” Fang Liuyun replied, though his eyes remained fixed on the group of Tang Yuan’s fans.

Fortunately, a few moments later, Tang Yuan’s manager arrived, handing out signed photos to calm the crowd.

The midday sun was harsh, and even with her phone screen at full brightness, the glare made it hard to read. Cheng Youran shielded the screen with her hand as she walked over to the layered shade beneath a cluster of ginkgo trees.

Tang Yuan had been in the industry for over four years and was actually a year older than Cheng Youran. Her recent rise in popularity was sudden and strange, all sparked by a viral confession post on Weibo.

The post described a fan who had fallen for a new game streamer—sweet voice, impressive skills—and later discovered that the streamer was actually a third-tier actress. It was the kind of “breaking the fourth wall” moment that got people talking.

With a few hints from the post, commenters quickly identified the actress as Tang Yuan—and also figured out who the mysterious streamer was.

While the news didn’t cause much of a stir on Weibo—where fangirls were used to this kind of thing—it blew up on esports forums.

Cheng Youran scrolled through the profile with a complicated expression. That “newbie streamer” was none other than her own Bilibili account—the one she used under the radar, as a low-key, struggling content creator just trying to make a living.

She hadn’t paid much attention to it before… but thinking back now, Tang Yuan’s voice really did sound a lot like hers.

After her Cat Mario video went viral, she started uploading gameplay videos in her spare time and occasionally did some livestreams.

Maybe she’d hit a plateau—her follower count had stalled at around 500,000, so she hadn’t been checking it much lately.

When she opened Bilibili again, she was stunned to see her follower count had shot past one million. No wonder Tang Yuan had taken an interest.

[User: SenbaPalm]: When’s the next Kairosoft series update? Dying to see Epic Pirates Story!

[User: SwordOutOfTheMountains]: Hahahahaha I literally can’t stop watching this.

[User: HasDouziUpdatedYet]: Waiting for our East Sea queen to return 👀

Guess I’ll deal with that after filming’s done, Cheng Youran thought, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

Tang Yuan hadn’t publicly admitted on Weibo that she was the “poor streamer trying to make ends meet,” but she had definitely been dropping hints—subtly encouraging fans to make the connection.

It was a bit of a headache to deal with.

But Cheng Youran wasn’t the type to shy away from trouble.

Cheng Youran slipped her phone into the pocket of her school uniform jacket. Only then did she realize she had wandered into the ginkgo grove near the edge of the school field. It was early summer, and the ginkgo leaves were a vibrant green, shimmering like waves in the wind.

“You’re blocking the light.”

The voice behind her was calm, with a hint of distance. She turned instinctively—Yan Junze.

His features were sharp and striking, with heavy brows that framed deep-set eyes. His jawline was clean and defined, like something out of a dramatic Western oil painting. In his slender hands, he held a phone.

“Senior Yan, are you playing Edge of Doomsday?” she asked, immediately recognizing the new mobile game on his screen.

In the game, players wake up in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, gathering wood, mining stone, hunting to survive… A sandbox survival game that had recently gone viral.

Yan Junze glanced up at her briefly, but said nothing. He simply lowered his eyes again and continued playing in silence.

Cheng Youran swore she hadn’t meant to watch—she’d been about to walk away—but then she caught a glimpse of his gameplay and froze, her expression shifting to one of disbelief.

She wasn’t trying to be rude, but honestly… she had never seen anyone play that badly before.

In less than a minute, Yan Junze’s character had died seven times.

“You need to use the spear—hit three times, then back off three steps,” Cheng Youran couldn’t help but offer some advice.

At her words, Yan Junze looked up at her. His eyelashes were thick and long, casting shadows over his eyes as he stared straight at her.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Senior?” Cheng Youran said, exasperated. “Look—you died again.”

She watched his poor bleeding character collapse on screen, and sighed with a mix of pity and disbelief.

Like fan, like idol, she thought. The last time she’d seen someone this bad at a game was in All Nations Cultivation, and that someone was none other than EastSeaYanJunze.

Tell him to dodge left? He’d veer right. Tell him to use his ultimate on the boss? He’d manage to cast it backward—on a teammate.

If it weren’t for his absurdly good luck pulling rare loot every time they ran a dungeon together, Cheng Youran was pretty sure… she never would’ve teamed up with him in the first place.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Yan Junze spoke softly, his voice gentle yet strikingly clear—like fine jade clinking together, crisp and elegant.

Maybe it was everything that had happened with Tang Yuan, but Cheng Youran found herself unusually attuned to voices lately. And this one… it sounded uncannily like EastSeaYanJunze.

“I didn’t quite catch that, Senior. Could you say it again?” she asked innocently, quickly recalling something Lu Zixiao had once told her.

Yan Junze looked a little puzzled. After a brief hesitation, he repeated, “Thank you.”

“I’m really sorry, I still didn’t hear you. Could you say it one more time?”

By now, Cheng Youran was about 70% sure she was right—but for the sake of certainty, she needed to hear it just once more.

Yan Junze’s chest rose slightly with a quiet inhale, but this time he didn’t say anything.

He was probably mad.

“Take your time,” Cheng Youran said, turning to leave.

“Wait, why can’t I cut through the vines with the machete?”

Yan Junze’s voice came, cool and tinged with confusion. Hearing that, Cheng Youran was certain—this was EastSeaYanJunze.

Her heart skipped a beat, and sweat started to form in her palms. If he found out she was Xiao Youzi…

She felt like the whole production might fall apart.

Though Yan Junze was only a few years older than her, she was still supposed to address him as “Senior” and speak to him with respect.

But when it came to games, people just wanted to unwind, right? It wasn’t all about formalities, especially when Yan Junze’s skills were leaving his teammates hanging.

“Nice job gifting that kill.”

“That reverse Q… You know what? Don’t even bother, just be the mascot next time. You got this.”

“Yan Junze, can I ask you something? Did you… finish elementary school?”

Make sure Yan Junze never finds out!

That would be absolute chaos.

After thinking it through, Cheng Youran cleared his throat, turned around, and replied concisely, “Senior Yan, vines should be cut with a stick.”

Yan Junze gave a neutral “Mm.” He watched as Cheng Youran spoke so confidently, then suddenly remarked, “Your voice sounds a lot like someone I know.”

=^_^=