“Action,” Sun Youming called out.

Once again, all eyes in the crew turned to Gu Yi.

It was the same scene—Gu Yi had already NG’ed once.

Sun Youming was notoriously exacting with his camera work. If an actor’s delivery was even slightly off, he would demand a retake. Gu Yi’s previous take lacked emotional layering. Objectively speaking, for a rookie actor, his performance wasn’t bad at all.

But it wasn’t good enough for Sun Youming. So they reshot. Again and again.

Right now, the director was watching the monitor intently.

In his last take, Gu Yi portrayed Shen Yao’s anger—but the emotion didn’t land. It felt like the anger of someone who’d been belittled, dismissed. Not the kind of fury rooted in principle and resolve that the character Shen Yao represented throughout the script.

This time, though—

On screen, Gu Yi’s eyes shimmered like stars. His expression was layered—anger, yes, but also determination, and something deeper: conviction.

“Whether my country needs me or not, I will return.”

“The reason it’s battered and broken is precisely why I must be the one to change it.”

His words hit like steel against stone, ringing with clarity. The unwavering tone of his voice spread like a current through the room.

The camera captured Gu Yi’s profile—every flicker of emotion etched clearly across his face.

Because if Shen Yao were only angry at being overlooked, then he would no longer be Shen Yao.

When he left, he had already made peace with losing everything.

Yes, the country was weak and poor. But that was exactly why people like him—those who had studied, those with vision—needed to come back.

In that moment, sunlight spilled over Gu Yi, wrapping him in its brilliance. His entire face seemed to glow.

Watching it happen, Qi Miao felt something unexplainable stir inside her—as if with one small step forward, she might meet Shen Yao face to face, stepping out from the pages of the novel, through eighty years of history.

Goosebumps rose all over her arms, impossible to stop.

As a fan of the book, seeing the character she loved brought to life with such sincerity—Qi Miao was overwhelmed with emotion.

Even though the shot only lasted a few seconds… she could feel it, undeniably: at that moment, Gu Yi’s soul was resonating with Shen Yao’s.

“Cut,” Sun Youming finally said.

There was surprise in his eyes, too.

He had cast Gu Yi as Shen Yao primarily because of the young man’s looks and presence. He knew Gu Yi had no acting experience, and was mentally prepared for a slow, grind-it-out kind of shoot.

If one take didn’t work, they’d do two. If two didn’t work, they’d do three. He was ready to chisel Shen Yao out of Gu Yi, piece by piece.

But this take? Gu Yi had grasped the emotional rhythm of the scene in a way that exceeded even his expectations.

It wasn’t just reciting lines. Gu Yi had clearly internalized the script and the character—then layered in his own interpretation. Suddenly, the role came alive.

“How… did he manage that?” Sun Youming muttered to himself. “All I told him was to spend more time understanding the character.”

“Maybe it just clicked,” the assistant director offered. “Gu Yi seems like someone who’s not afraid of putting in the work.”

Sun Youming waved a hand dismissively, then after a pause, said, “I used to think Shen Yao was a good fit for Xiao Gu. Now I wonder… maybe it’s more than just a fit.”

To Sun Youming’s eye, Gu Yi clearly lacked technical polish—but he had something more valuable: intuition.

That instinct—an actor’s ability to truly understand a role—was something innate. In front of the camera, different actors bring different energy to the same role. Some get it instantly. Others spend decades stuck in the same rut of wide eyes and furrowed brows.

But in all his years as a director, Sun Youming had rarely met someone like Gu Yi—someone who could feel a character so quickly and deeply.

…

Across the room, Wu Qingchun’s hand tightened around his teacup.

Moments ago, he’d been watching, amused, waiting to see Gu Yi trip again.

But this take? He couldn’t fault it. Not one bit.

“Where did Director Sun find this rookie?” Wu Qingchun blinked. “Are we sure he’s never acted before?”

Because just now, what Gu Yi delivered was seamless—completely unforced. Wu was known for his high standards with younger actors, and even he couldn’t find a single flaw in the shot.

In a full-length scene, it’s rare for an actor to have more than one “brilliant moment.” And what Gu Yi had just done? That was a brilliant moment.

“I heard he really hasn’t filmed anything before.”

Actors with zero experience were like blank canvases. Sometimes that unpolished quality glowed in the right setting—but take them out of that narrow space, and the cracks would show instantly.

Frankly, a project like A Letter on My Desk wasn’t suited for a rookie.

Shen Yao was a mature character—someone with ideals, ambition, and a heart that beat for his country. If the actor couldn’t embody that gravitas, it would fall flat.

This wasn’t some campus rom-com where the leads blush just from holding hands.

After the shoot wrapped for the day and the cast dispersed to rest, Wu Qingchun found time to call his agent.

Both he and Xin Ruchen were signed to Suiyue Entertainment—and, in fact, they shared the same agent.

Xin Ruchen was a standout among his generation of young actors. Winning a Cloud Star Award was notoriously difficult, and his win for Best Supporting Actor had made him a front-runner of the new wave.

Not getting cast in A Letter on My Desk had been a real blow to him.

He’d always walked the “serious actor” path. He didn’t have the looks of the trendy idol crowd, but Xin Ruchen believed skill mattered more than appearance.

Getting passed over for this role shattered that belief.

Sun Youming had long been a respected name in the industry. Even he had prioritized looks over skill? If Xin Ruchen couldn’t land a role like this—where was the road ahead?

Since the casting announcement, Wu Qingchun had heard that their agent had quietly paid for a few negative write-ups about Gu Yi—mostly doubting the film’s prospects and planning to slam Gu Yi’s acting when the movie came out.

“Stop fussing over it already,” Wu Qingchun said. “If you ask me, this actor playing Shen Yao might just break out.”

He hadn’t been happy when Xin Ruchen lost such a good role.

But that was back when he thought Sun Youming had cast some random amateur as a replacement.

After spending the whole day watching Gu Yi on set, even Wu Qingchun had to admit—Gu Yi suited the role of Shen Yao better than Xin Ruchen ever could have.

Xin Ruchen felt it was unfair, and perhaps it was. But Wu Qingchun had worked in theatre and film for decades. Back when he was young, the ones who made it were always the handsome ones—actors who looked good and could act.

Now, things had changed. There were fewer of those actors, and it was only after their absence that those with less dazzling appearances started getting the spotlight.

But showbiz was never about fairness to begin with.

Wu Qingchun didn’t know how Xin Ruchen was reacting, but he’d already said everything he could.

…

Gu Yi, meanwhile, hadn’t fully come down from the emotional high of filming.

His body was exhausted, but his mind was still buzzing.

To be honest, he hadn’t expected to get so immersed in the role before today’s shoot.

It felt as though all his thoughts—every bit of himself—had slipped into the character.

Even now, Shen Yao’s lines still echoed through his mind.

Unable to sleep, Gu Yi started looking up the lives of real scientists who had returned to China in that era—physicists, chemists… Each story felt like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, slowly rebuilding a broken country.

Shen Yao may have been fictional, but he embodied all of them.

It didn’t feel right to treat this role as just another character.

The emotional weight and ambition condensed into Shen Yao—Gu Yi had to help the audience feel that. It couldn’t be light and flimsy. It had to be… grounded, like a truth carved into stone.

Gu Yi picked up a pen and began refining the character’s backstory, one sentence at a time.

He reread the script closely. Before filming began, he could only imagine how Shen Yao might move or speak—but after that first scene, Shen Yao began to come alive. Now, Gu Yi had a clearer sense of how to approach each moment.

Evening fell. Under the lamplight, Gu Yi sat with a furrowed brow, his focus razor-sharp.

When he finished analyzing the script, he saved all the materials he had found online.

Some fans had asked him to talk more about science trivia during his livestreams. While Gu Yi only knew the basics of physics and chemistry, this research had opened up whole new doors. Modern science could be added to his roster.

Lately, he’d been too busy with group activities, but he had already compiled several pages of problems and notes. He’d go live to teach again soon.

The day Gu Yi joined the A Letter on My Desk film crew, his phone had barely stopped buzzing.

Once he wrapped up filming and turned it back on, it lit up with hundreds of messages.

Ji Chi and Xie Xingjia were filming an ad campaign, and Baiqian Entertainment had also booked them as guest stars on a new variety show.

Xie Xingjia wasn’t one to talk much, even over WeChat. He liked using “……” as a placeholder, and his thoughts on being a guest star mostly consisted of “…….” He’d also started requesting more daily sessions of “cloud-cat therapy.”

Gu Yi messaged Ji Chi: “Is he okay?”

Ji Chi: “He’s fine.”

Gu Yi felt relieved.

“…but the cat’s not.”

That made Gu Yi think of that fan comment: “One cat serving six men.” Suddenly, he felt a bit sorry for poor Ke Rua.

Because truthfully—after a long day of filming—he too wanted to see a little cat bouncing around the room.

Liu Junyuan had just accepted an invite to a music show. His agency, Shanshui Starlight, specialized in music production. Though he wasn’t planning an album yet, he had a single in the works.

Yang Ting and He Zhao were also tied up with separate projects, running on packed schedules. By evening, the group chat was quiet—except for Gu Yi, still watching cat videos shared by Yuan Cheng.

Ke Rua had recently picked up another side gig: mending the manager’s family relationships.

Whenever the members had solo work, Ke Rua would go home with Yuan Cheng. His kid was thrilled to have the cat around, and with Ke Rua “supervising,” the kid suddenly became very enthusiastic about doing homework.

“Teacher Gu, how’s filming going?”

The other members had started logging in, and their first question was naturally about Gu Yi’s first day on set.

“Not bad,” Gu Yi replied honestly. “Thinking through the role is a bit tough.”

“No worries, Teacher Gu!”

Even though Gu Yi had no prior acting experience, every Crown member knew just how much time and heart he’d poured into A Letter on My Desk.

Sure, there had been a lot of skeptical voices online after the casting was announced. But anyone who had spent time with Gu Yi knew how hard he worked.

“Ke Rua is cheering for Gu Yi,” their manager Yuan Cheng suddenly chimed in.

He dropped a video in the chat.

In it, he gently held Ke Rua’s soft little paw, waving it at the camera.

Ke Rua waved at Gu Yi, fluffy and adorable.

“I want a paw wave too! Let the cat energy beam hit me aaahh!”

“The sad truth is—” Yang Ting sighed dramatically, “I just looked online and Ke Rua already has more than half my Weibo followers.”

“Every time I post a selfie, fans ask me to move out of the way so I’m not blocking the cat.”

“Humans losing to cats… again.”