According to Jiangshi TV’s upper management, the original plan for CROWN was simple: slap their faces on product endorsements, release a debut album, film a reality show, and squeeze out a concert tour—and once they’d milked the group dry, CROWN would quietly exit the idol stage.

Since Idol X kicked off the idol survival show boom in China, every platform had followed the same blueprint for limited groups.

Boil it down to two words: cash grab.

Jiangshi TV’s variety shows had never reached the popularity of their competitors. Battle of the Stars was, without exaggeration, the highest-rated show the platform had ever produced. Now that they finally had a breakout idol group, the execs were laser-focused on turning it into profit.

But the director of Battle of the Stars didn’t agree.

The show’s success wasn’t just luck—it came from how little corporate interference there had been in both production and contestant selection. CROWN’s members were chosen by public vote, their skills evenly matched, and the gap in popularity small. The director still believed in them. He hoped CROWN could carve a new path for idol survival shows in China.

“When was the last time a boy group really blew up?”
“Twenty years ago!” the director shot back. “Sure, Idol X’s debut group was huge—but it only caught fire in fan circles. The moment fans migrated to Hotblood Debut, that group was history.”

“Getting public support for an idol group today? That’s no easy feat.”

The executives wanted to argue—but Battle of the Stars had been the director’s brainchild from the start. If he quit, there was no one else to lead Season 2. They had no choice but to back him up.

As a result, CROWN entered the post-debut world with far fewer commercial deals than their predecessors.

Fans were furious. They demanded Jiangshi TV change the management team—but the platform ignored them, and fans had no leverage.

A week later, Gu Yi and the others were handed a hefty “development plan” binder.

A4 pages. Thick as a brick.

The booklet outlined every detail of their training schedule: music, dance, variety skills, acting, songwriting—everything. Their first task as a group? More training. Vocal and dance specialists had been hired to elevate them to professional level before their debut album was recorded.

The members were herded into the practice rooms and promptly thrown into what could only be described as idol boot camp.

All those vocals that had wowed fans on Battle of the Stars?
To the coaches, they were barely passable.

Gu Yi had thought his performance in Explosion had shown clear improvement—but because he had the weakest foundation, the teachers dragged him out for extra drills every day. His face had turned the color of a bitter melon.

“Watch your movement! Again, Gu Yi.”
“Again!”
“And again!”

Gu Yi wanted to die.

Liu Junyuan gave a wry smile:

“I thought I graduated from Battle of the Stars. Turns out this is Season Two.”

“Honestly, I find it comforting,” He Zhao said. “It just means we’ll have to wait a little longer.”

He Zhao was level-headed and strong—consistently the best performer in practice.

He came from Yuanzi Interactive, a well-known idol agency that had produced successful contestants in both Idol X and Hotblood Debut. He’d seen firsthand how those stars rose overnight—and how quickly they vanished after their limited groups disbanded.

That kind of fall—from viral fame to total irrelevance—was crushing. Especially for debut members who’d once stood center stage.

He Zhao had been a nobody at his agency. No one had expected Battle of the Stars to succeed, which is why they’d sent him in the first place.

He was used to being invisible. If CROWN had launched into glitzy endorsements and arena tours right out of the gate, he probably wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

At least Jiangshi TV had given them structure. A roadmap. The future wasn’t just a blank slate.

“Yeah, true,” Xie Xingjia added. “Tiring, sure. But otherwise, no complaints.”

“Teacher Gu, what are you doing?”

During a break, Yang Ting noticed Gu Yi hunched over something. Curious, he leaned in to sneak a peek—

Only to recoil in horror.

The notebook was full of unintelligible scribbles—symbols and shorthand he couldn’t decipher at all.

Yang Ting jumped back three steps like he’d seen a demon.

Gu Yi, deadpan:

“Seriously?”

“Exposure to Teacher Gu’s brilliance will blind you. Must retreat—repeatedly.”

The truth? All of CROWN had watched the playback of Gu Yi’s infamous livestream—the one where he explained civil service exam questions.

They didn’t know him well yet—except Ji Chi—so when they saw his name trending, they clicked in out of curiosity.

At first, their faces were:

“= =”
Then:
“凸”
And by the end:
“=-=”

#So This Is the Real Gu Yi#
#Man Out of Place#

The one who complained the most was Yang Ting.

He was from a province known for producing top-tier civil service candidates. His whole family worked in “respectable” careers. He was the black sheep who went into idol training.

No joke—he was a senior in music school. And back in his dorm, he had a whole set of civil service practice books. A gift from his mother.

Purchased with the money he gave her for Mother’s Day.

As a Children’s Day gift.

Because that’s the kind of mountain-sized love only a mother can give.
And he… had no choice but to accept it.

Yang Ting had once sworn with a hand on his chest, “None of us idols would ever touch that stuff!”

Then… his parents saw Gu Yi’s livestream.

Yang Ting: “…”

How was he supposed to explain this?

Like how people from Inner Mongolia don’t ride horses and sleep in yurts, and not every Sichuaner owns a panda, his explanation fell on deaf ears.

It even rhymed. He wanted to curl up and disappear.

Gu Yi had been too busy with training to keep up livestreams, so instead, he posted his solution outlines online. Civil service exam questions were more complex than the public-sector job test prep ones, which needed only a few hints to solve. Once you had the right mindset, the rest fell into place. Daily livestreams were just repetitive after that.

Fans kept sending in tricky, obscure questions. Gu Yi asked Liu Wei to collect them. Once they reached 100, he’d do a livestream to explain them all.

After debuting, Gu Yi and the others, once distant, had slowly begun to grow closer.

He and Liu Junyuan were the main vocalists of the group. Ji Chi and He Zhao were the main dancers, while Xie Xingjia and Yang Ting took on most of the rap segments. Still, CROWN never officially assigned rigid roles.

Vocally skilled members like Gu Yi were pushed to improve further. Gu Yi’s strength was in emotional delivery, but his technical skills lacked refinement, so his instructor focused on things like breath control, vocal switching, and high note projection.

Liu Junyuan had solid technique for an idol, but the coaches were benchmarking him against professional singers.

Even the vocalists didn’t get to skip dance training. And when dance practice hit, the training room filled with cries that were more pitiful than the monkeys of Mount Emei.

Gu Yi seriously believed that if Journey to the West ever got another adaptation, he could play one of the monkeys from Flower Fruit Mountain.

Assuming monkeys from Flower Fruit and Mount Emei were the same species, that is.

But it wasn’t all suffering—the improvement was real. As Gu Yi adjusted to the rhythm, he found himself watching his Battle of the Stars performances and seeing flaws he hadn’t noticed before.

---

【 Flop on Arrival? CROWN’s Debut Resources Are the Worst in History”】
【 Breaking Down Idol Survival Group Fates: Is CROWN Already Doomed?”】

“Talk about China’s survival show groups, and Timee from Idol X still leads the way,” the article in Star Entertainment Weekly began. “They landed the cover of Runway just one month after debut, flooded with brand deals and sponsorships. Their centre, Chu Chi, topped endorsement rankings with 23 deals in six months. But most of those were short-lived. As of today, Chu Chi only has 8 remaining.”

CROWN had barely debuted a month when this thinkpiece dropped, using examples from Idol X and Hotblood Debut to highlight the post-debut chaos that often followed: lip-synced concerts, sponsorship battles becoming fan wars, and brands deliberately stirring trouble by linking promotions to sales numbers.

“They’re called CROWN, sure. But to wear a crown is to bear its weight. And it seems this crown must be passed on to someone else.”

Though fans fought hard to defend the group, it was hard to deny that CROWN’s number of performances and endorsements paled in comparison to their predecessors.

The truth?
CROWN had received offers—but only the best, most appropriate ones made it past the vetting team.

It wasn’t until their second month that they finally accepted an invitation—to appear at the Greenlime Music Gala, hosted by Greenlime TV.

The Greenlime Gala had been running for over a decade—one of the most prestigious music events in the country. Even as the music scene declined, many top singers still chose it to debut their newest tracks.

So when the guest list dropped, fans couldn’t believe their eyes: 【 】

【“???”】
【“The CROWN boys are finally back from the dead??”】
【“Please, Jiangshi TV, if you don’t know how to manage a group, stop. Do you know how frustrating it is to wait and get nothing?”】
【“I’m actually spitting blood. What did Gu Yi, Ji Chi, Xie Xingjia, Yang Ting, He Zhao, and Liu Junyuan ever do to deserve this neglect?”】

Fans were no strangers to spending money for their idols—but they hadn’t expected to follow a budget-friendly group.

Since debut, CROWN had landed only three endorsements. All were group deals: Blueberry Mobile, a food brand, and a sportswear label.

Thankfully, the brands were all top-tier, well-regarded names. That soothed the fans—a little.

They accepted the Greenlime invite not just for the prestige, but because CROWN’s debut single, Crown, was finally ready.

Jiangshi TV had hired one of the industry’s best music producers, and the members themselves had helped shape the song. To Gu Yi, Crown couldn’t compete with time-honored classics, but it certainly wasn’t a soulless cash-grab single either.

The track hadn’t even been recorded yet. Its first performance would be at the Greenlime Gala.

Already buried in rehearsals, the moment the invite was confirmed, every member doubled down and started working overtime.

Their first debut.

Their first stage.

Their first original song.

Each “first” mattered.
And not one of them wanted to waste it.