“Morning, Teacher Gu.”

“Morning.” Gu Yi looked up and greeted his teammates with a nod.

Yang Ting hesitated at the doorway.

Liu Junyuan gave him a nudge from behind. “Why are you frozen?”

Over breakfast downstairs, Yang Ting had been dying to know how Gu Yi’s songwriting was going—but now that they were upstairs, he suddenly hesitated. “I’m a little conflicted.”

“About what?”

“I mean, what if Teacher Gu names his song…” Yang Ting blinked dramatically. “The Periodic Table?”

Everyone: “…”

Even Xie Xingjia, who had been inching closer to Gu Yi, paused mid-step—as if taking another move would summon an arcane symbol no one could read.

“How about we send the leader to check?” someone suggested.

Ji Chi: “So I can publicly confirm I’m illiterate?”

After debut, Ji Chi had been unanimously elected team leader—but it was mostly in name. The only time his authority kicked in was when someone needed to be volunteered.

Grumbling aside, he went.

A few minutes later, Ji Chi returned with a solemn nod. “The title is not The Periodic Table.”

The group let out a collective sigh of relief.

“But I suspect,” Ji Chi continued, “Teacher Gu is dabbling in something even more high-level than the periodic table.”

Everyone: “…”

In short, nothing in this world could stop Gu Yi now.

Eventually, curiosity won. After Ji Chi peeked, He Zhao quietly shuffled over too.

He saw that Gu Yi hadn’t written much—just a few formulas interspersed with words like “reaction.” He didn’t understand the chemistry, but he did recognize that Gu Yi was trying to sketch out a melody.

Disjointed, incomplete. Not yet connected.

Gu Yi rested his chin on one hand, brows deeply furrowed.

Even after months of being teammates, even after sharing the same stage—up close, He Zhao still found Gu Yi’s looks breathtaking.

Their former company, Yuanzi Interactive, had once signed a ridiculously handsome trainee. While He Zhao and the others trained for hours, that guy got all the dream opportunities without lifting a finger.

He’d scored a major supporting role in a hit teen drama and blew up overnight—only to cancel his contract at the peak of his fame.

But if we’re just talking visuals, Gu Yi was far beyond him.

Gu Yi had the weakest foundation in CROWN. Before debut, he had no formal training. But during rehearsals, no matter how hard the song or how gruelling the choreography, he practiced ten times harder than anyone else—without cutting corners.

Seeing him always made He Zhao feel like he should try harder too.

Gu Yi had debuted as the centre of Battle of the Stars, ranked first in popularity, and was widely considered the best-looking idol across all groups. From what He Zhao had heard, Gu Yi had been offered more scripts than anyone else in CROWN.

This was someone who could have chosen the easiest road—and instead, chose the hardest.

“Teacher Gu, here—I think you could tweak this a bit,” He Zhao offered.

Gu Yi adjusted the chords on his guitar. “Like this?”

He Zhao nodded.

Gu Yi strummed both the original and revised version. The new version, admittedly, flowed better.

The suggestion sparked inspiration. Gu Yi scribbled a few changes onto the paper. When he looked up again, Ji Chi and Xie Xingjia had sat down in front of him. He Zhao and Yang Ting were on either side, all pointing at his notes, chatting excitedly.

Gu Yi: “It’s getting kind of crowded.”

His teammates were too enthusiastic—he couldn’t stop them even if he tried.

But with everyone tossing out thoughts, the melody fragments started connecting. Gu Yi had rough ideas before, but now he saw how to turn them into real music. His mind felt clearer by the minute.

Composing was hard. But now that he’d actually started, Gu Yi realized—it wasn’t as impossible as he’d thought.

…

CROWN’s official blog regularly posted updates on the members.

The group didn’t do many public appearances. Their most active period had been during Summer Bloom’s promotion—following the Golden String Awards, they’d attended nearly every music award show that season, each stage more iconic than the last.

Of the four songs on their EP, Summer Bloom had already been covered by Ren Ni. The other two—Reckless and Savage—had been licensed by multiple variety shows.

To fans, it felt like CROWN was everywhere, and yet their members were nowhere to be seen.

So these days, fans loved flocking to the official blog to knock on the metaphorical bowl and beg for crumbs.

Today, the blog didn’t disappoint:

[Members hard at work on new music.]

Looking at the blurry group shot posted on the homepage, fans commented:

[“This was definitely taken by their manager, right?”]
[“LMAO—Manager’s photo rule: as long as their faces are in it, it’s fine.”]
[“Wait, does this mean the new album will have songs written by the members?!”]
[“Spotted: Xie Xingjia sneaking chips again.”]
[“Teacher Gu looks so focused—he’s adorable!”]
[“Serious complaint to the team: Why put two giant sofas in that room? Make them smaller so everyone has to squeeze together more 😏”]
[“+1 +1 +10086!”]

^[1]T/N: I could only use the smirking emoji to convey but it’s supposed to be a dog-head emoji like this -> here

^[2]T/N: +1 means they agree and +10086 mean they strongly agree. So, in a sense they are saying: I agree, agree again and SUPER agree!

Even though Summer Bloom had just been released, fans were already buzzing with anticipation for CROWN’s first full-length album.

…

And it wasn’t just Gu Yi making progress—this week, the other members had been developing new material too.

Whenever Gu Yi ran out of inspiration, he’d wander around—checking in on this person’s process, or that person’s notes.

He found that Liu Junyuan and Yang Ting’s compositions were the most developed so far.

Gu Yi stayed with them a long while.

“Teacher Gu, you’re seriously stressing me out.”

Despite saying that, Yang Ting silently slid over to give Gu Yi room to watch him work.

Yang Ting’s song was nearly finished. After reading through it, Gu Yi’s overwhelming impression was: smooth. Unlike his own song, which was still a patchwork of disconnected fragments.

“You’re amazing,” Gu Yi said.

Yang Ting remained expressionless—on the surface. But beneath the table, he was furiously texting:

“Teacher Gu said I’m amazing!!”
“Yeah, yeah, we heard.”
“Now kneel.”
“If you’re jealous, just say so. No need to be subtle.”

Gu Yi glanced around and then returned to his own search for inspiration.

His song was also nearly complete, but something still felt missing—like there was more waiting to be uncovered.

He’d read a lot of books and listened to countless tracks recently. He could feel inspiration hovering just out of reach… but it refused to land.

Frustrated, he grabbed a popsicle, jogged downstairs, and went for a run.

He stayed out longer than usual. Upstairs, Xie Xingjia glanced down and spotted him crouching by the pavement—feeding a cat.

It was tiny. If you weren’t paying attention, you’d never have noticed it.

One by one, the others bolted downstairs.

“Where did the cat come from?”
“Where did the cat food come from?!”

Getting closer, they saw the kitten was indeed small—black as a coal nugget. Gu Yi pointed to the corner of the parking lot: “Found it while I was running.”

It had been hidden so well, anyone would’ve missed it.

As for the food—

Gu Yi had no prior experience feeding cats, but he remembered Auntie Wang had a British Shorthair. So, he called her for advice. She had someone express-ship food to him the same day.

The kitten—coal-black and fluff-soft—was adorable. Yang Ting couldn’t resist the urge to pet it. When the kitten let out a soft squeak, the rest of the group queued up for their turn.

The question of “Should we keep it?” was answered the moment that soft fur hit their fingertips.

Yes. Adopted.

And even if they didn’t know how to raise it properly—they had Yuan Cheng.

But naming the cat? That sparked a war.

Traditionalists wanted to call it Coal Ball.

Trendy camp voted for Black (in English).

Yang Ting, feeling poetic, suggested an ancient-style name: Xiao Tie (“Whistling Iron”).

Someone else insisted on Bu Liu Qiu—(“black as pitch”).

Eventually, the kitten was christened with a flashy, East-meets-West name: Ke Rua.

Because… CROWN. So… 可rua (“can be petted”).

^[3]T/N: “可rua” is a playful name that combines the Chinese character “可” (kě, meaning “cute” or “adorable”) with the romanized slang “rua,” an internet term for petting or … Continue reading.

Gu Yi: “…”

He had reservations. If your Mandarin wasn’t perfect, “rua” was definitely a pronunciation trap.

His own suggestion—Manganese Dioxide—got shot down in the very first round.
Five to one.

Gu Yi was… quietly disgruntled.

By the end of the day, their workspace was overflowing with cat food, litter boxes, scratching posts, and every toy imaginable. Gu Yi thought the kitten would be spoiled in peace.

But the moment Yuan Cheng saw it, the team created an official Weibo account:

[CROWN’s Cat: Ke Rua]

They got it verified, too. And immediately followed the official CROWN and Jiangshi TV accounts.

First post:

[The Story of Ke Rua’s Name]

At first, fans complained:

“Do these boys ever actually work?!”

Five minutes later:

[“So young, already burdened with providing for its entire household. Poor baby kitty.”]
[“Manganese dioxide is just too specific a name. How can you call something this cute ‘dumb and explosive’?”]
[“CROWN, please come back to work! Don’t let the kitty do everything!”]

Their cries were so loud that the account quietly dropped videos of the members playing with the cat.

[“One cat. Six men. Is this the collapse of morals or just the rise of feline rule?”]
[“I wanna cuddle Ke Rua too!!”]
[“Honestly, compared to Ke Rua, CROWN doesn’t even seem that important anymore…”]

Turns out, the Cat Effect was very real.

Even while composing, the second Ke Rua came padding into the room, they’d pause everything to pet her. It had become a daily ritual.

Then one day, Yang Ting gasped in shock—Gu Yi had officially decided on a song title.

His draft paper was filled with edits, revealing the inner torment of creation. But in the space that remained, the bold, ink-deep title spoke of utter conviction.

Gu Yi was clearly very satisfied.

The title?

“Manganese Dioxide.”

“Teacher Gu, no. Absolutely not.”

“That’s worse than Carbon Monoxide.”

“Wait, don’t even say that! Don’t give him ideas!!”

CROWN had originally planned for their debut album to be bright and youthful, all sunshine and optimism. Their writing sessions had reflected that cheerful direction.

And then Manganese Dioxide walked in like an industrial bulldozer ready to tear up the market.

The members often joked: Gu Yi may have god-tier visuals, but left unchecked, his ideas would veer a hundred miles off theme.

It was their solemn duty… to pull him back. One gentle tug at a time.