Greenlime TV isn’t based in Province C. As one of the most mature and accomplished TV stations in the country for producing variety shows, Greenlime has launched many successful programs over the years.

The Greenlime Music Festival originated from one of Greenlime’s earlier music programs. Over time, as the Chinese music industry gradually waned, the original show faded into history, yet the Music Festival itself continued, year after year.

The official setlist is only revealed the night before the festival. Some singers perform classics, others bring new songs. This year, fans were surprised to find that CROWN would be performing an unreleased track.

【“Is the new song called ‘Crown’? 】
【“If I’m not mistaken, isn’t this their very first stage as a group?” 】
【“This is insane—TIMEE had already held four concerts two months after debut. Is CROWN secretly loaded?” 】
【“Well… yeah. Except for Teacher Gu.” 】
【“Teacher Gu’s not broke either! Guy has a million skills. Ever since I started stanning CROWN, I got addicted to Teacher Gu’s civil service prep streams. Not only did my scores shoot up, my mom even raised my allowance.” 】
【“Thinking about how seriously he prepares for each lesson… I’ve suddenly forgiven CROWN for going MIA.” 】

Over the past month, although Jiangshi TV had revealed part of its roadmap for CROWN, many fans—used to idol groups debuting and then immediately disbanding, like TIMEE—were skeptical.

TIMEE had more buzz than CROWN when they first debuted, even sparking an idol craze across the industry. But once they officially formed as a group, their schedules became overwhelming. Members juggled individual gigs and endorsements, and their debut concert turned into a disaster—even hardcore fans struggled to defend it.

In terms of management, Jiangshi TV wasn’t even on par with the organizers of Idol X. After seeing Jiangshi’s post-debut treatment of CROWN, fans were bracing for the worst.

…

Gu Yi and the others took the earliest flight out. With nothing much to do on the plane, Gu Yi pulled out the script for A Letter on My Desk.

After signing the contract with the production team, he had received the full version of the script.

Sun Youming had already shown Gu Yi an early draft. The latest version revised some of the chemistry-related content. In some directors’ habits, even after filming starts, actors don’t get the full script—either for secrecy or to prevent formulaic acting.

But since A Letter on My Desk is adapted from a novel, the storyline is already well-known, so secrecy wasn’t necessary.

Gu Yi had a copy of the novel with him too, along with some author interviews he’d downloaded online—all stacked on his tray table.

He had zero acting experience, and director Sun Youming had told him to start by understanding the character. Learning acting techniques could come later.

Gu Yi closed his eyes, replaying everything he’d gathered about Shen Yao, the character he was to portray.

The original novel wasn’t long—just a few hours’ read. After analyzing both the novel and the script, his notes on Shen Yao barely filled a few pages.

Then, all at once, he snapped out of his daze, pulled a few blank sheets of paper, and started scribbling at a speed far faster than when he’d been writing the character notes.

Yang Ting, seated next to him, couldn’t help but glance sideways at the flurry of movement.

Yang Ting: “…”

He really hadn’t meant to peek—it just caught his eye!

The title at the top of the page practically blazed with golden light:
“A Brief Analysis of the Misuse of Chemistry Knowledge in Film and Television.”

He was blind now. Spiritually blind.

Yang Ting whispered to Liu Junyuan: “I think my brain’s about to sprout.”

Liu Junyuan: “Where was your original brain then?”

Same people, same training-from-hell lifestyle—why were Gu Yi’s thoughts always operating on another level?

Yang Ting glanced at Ji Chi in the front row. Now that was a whole different genre of overachiever.

Two kings from two domains, yet somehow perfectly in sync. Ji Chi would be halfway through a song and casually toss snacks to Gu Yi, while Gu Yi would drop some random question that Ji Chi always managed to answer fluently.

By the time they got off the plane and dropped their luggage at the hotel, Gu Yi had already filled those pages front and back.

Ever since accepting the role for A Letter on My Desk, Gu Yi had been working on this paper. It was a habit—back when he first transmigrated here, with nothing to study, he’d felt strangely empty.

That afternoon, with no events scheduled, he revised and fleshed out the final section of the paper. It had taken him nearly a month, written during breaks between gruelling practices, as a way to keep his mind sharp.

If only he had lab equipment on hand—it would’ve been better to include some experimental validation.

He suddenly remembered what Director Sun had said about pursuing further education.

Maybe… he should just apply for a chemistry degree?

Among the CROWN members, Gu Yi had the lowest formal education. Yang Ting and Liu Junyuan had both graduated from conservatories. Ji Chi and Xie Xingjia majored in dance. He Zhao studied English in university. It was one reason he had always felt out of place at Yuanzi Interactive.

After finishing his edits, Gu Yi gave the paper a thorough proofread and submitted it to a journal.

He didn’t bother aiming for a core journal. In his past life, he’d published several, but the chemistry standard in this world was slightly behind. Even so, this article probably wouldn’t have made the cut.

But publishing wasn’t the point.

Writing it was.

Doing something outside of idol work gave Gu Yi a sense of stability.

The idol industry did bring in money fast—especially after renegotiating with Xingyao Entertainment. Even though CROWN had far fewer endorsements than the older groups, Gu Yi still managed to earn five years’ worth of salary in just two months.

Xingyao still paid him a monthly wage too.

Employee benefits. He’d take them without guilt.

As long as Xingyao Entertainment didn’t collapse, he could look forward to a peaceful retirement.

…

“Don’t be nervous when you go out—stay steady, no need to rush your steps.”

“You don’t have to walk all six in a straight line. Just relax.”

Yesterday, the skies over A City were still clear. But by today, the clouds had rolled in.

The Greenlime Music Festival red carpet started at 4 p.m., and based on the event schedule, CROWN’s turn would be around 4:30. The group was newly formed—Gu Yi and the others had decent popularity, but nowhere near the legacy of music veterans who had dominated the industry for years.

The red carpet was already packed with fans.

Ever since the golden era of Mandopop legends ended in the early 2000s, singers had gradually lost their edge to actors in terms of popularity. These days, aside from old-school record labels, it was mainly music survival shows that launched new artists.

Naturally, the music festival’s red carpet couldn’t compare to the glamour of major film festivals or awards shows.

The only music publication still holding ground in the industry—Melophile Magazine—had reporters present. A few fashion magazines showed up too, but mostly second-tier ones. It was common knowledge: singers just didn’t have the looks that actors did. The red carpet wasn’t exactly a visual feast.

At this hour, even the journalists weren’t very engaged.

Lin Kui, a reporter from Glam Rhythm, was reviewing a recent set of photos and felt the results were just average. Not even enough visual impact to make a decent nine-grid post. She was about to take a break when suddenly a wave of excited noise rippled across the outer edge of the red carpet.

Lin Kui instinctively lifted her head. Her hands moved faster than her thoughts—first elbowing her way closer to the carpet, then firing off a rapid series of shutter clicks: ka-ka-ka-ka-ka!

The cheers grew louder in her ears, and her fingers didn’t stop once.

Since TIMEE debuted, every project group from music variety shows had been labelled “flash-in-the-pan idols,” but in the moment the members of CROWN stepped onto the red carpet, their images frozen in camera flash, Lin Kui couldn’t help but think: in terms of visuals, CROWN could hold their own against any elite project group.

And Gu Yi, dead centre, looked phenomenal.

On the Battle of the Stars stage, Gu Yi had never worn a suit. But today, walking the carpet—even in a more relaxed-cut style—his shoulders, waistline, legs… every line was perfect.

“GU YI AHHHHH!!”
“CROWN!!”

Only then did Lin Kui realize—this was CROWN’s very first red carpet appearance. Her hands flew to her phone. She edited fast and had Glam Rhythm post the photos immediately.

【“!”】
【“Okay now I believe they’ve been training seriously. Don’t they look way sharper than they did on Battle of the Stars?” 】
【“Honestly? I didn’t pick them for their visuals, but how do the powerhouse line-up look this good in suits too?!” 】

After her post went up, Weibo’s live engagement stats spiked. Other media outlets followed with their own red carpet shots of CROWN, but Lin Kui’s post had caught the exact moment the boys were smiling—

【“I’m blown away!!” 】
【“This kind of red carpet moment? I don’t need a lot. Just once a day is enough!” 】
【“You get it, right? When they smile—it’s adorable! Gu Yi and Ji Chi usually give off this distant vibe when they’re not smiling, but then—BOOM—Ji Chi has dimples! The whole vibe changes!” 】
【“I GET IT I GET IT I GET IT!!” 】

CROWN’s walk only lasted a few minutes, but the fans’ screams never once died down. Footage started circulating online—shaky, low-res, recorded from phones, but still—

【“Hot guy fanservice!!” 】
【“Not the typical overstyled boy group vibe—they’re fresh, clean, and super cute. Tell me I’m wrong!” 】

Meanwhile, over at the editorial office of Chemistry and Life magazine—

Editor Li Yu sneakily scrolled through her phone, liked, shared, and reposted Glam Rhythm’s photos of CROWN, then finally opened her inbox and began sorting through the week’s article submissions.

Chemistry and Life was a provincial-level journal—not core, but well-regarded in the chemistry field. Trusted by professionals, it received a steady stream of submissions every month.

Li Yu’s job was the most basic step: weed out low-quality drafts, categorize the rest by column type, and pass along the qualified ones.

The work was mind-numbingly dull. But Li Yu had followed the academic track after graduating, even worked on her campus paper during grad school, so the process was second nature by now.

She began sifting through the latest submissions.

Every issue had a few solid articles, but just as many half-baked ones. Halfway through, her eyes were going blurry. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, then stared at the new CROWN group photo for a solid thirty seconds.

Life without idols is like fish without a bicycle.

With a sigh about work slowly driving her insane, she opened the next submission.

Huh. This one was… actually kind of fresh.

Formatting? Solid. No glaring errors.

Author?

Li Yu put her glasses back on, dropped a few eyedrops in, then pointed at the screen and read the name word by word.

Author: Gu Yi.
Affiliation: Xingyao Entertainment Cultural Media Co., Ltd., S City, Province C; xx Film and Television Culture Studio.

…What?