Without realizing it, Gu Yi had already spent a full month with the A Letter on My Desk film crew.

During filming days, he worked diligently—reading the script, analyzing the character. On days when he wasn’t filming, and the crew’s mock lab wasn’t in use, he’d borrow it to run small experiments.

Director Sun Youming, terrified he might accidentally get poisoned or start a fire, always assigned someone to shadow him closely.

But more often, Gu Yi spent his time quietly observing other actors on set.

Sun Youming had a habit of casting newcomers in lead roles, but his supporting cast was always made up of seasoned pros.

Though Gu Yi occasionally earned praise from the director, his performances weren’t nearly as stable as those of the others.

Qi Miao, despite her young age, had a wealth of experience. Her acting was refined enough to hold her own in the industry, and when Gu Yi shared scenes with her, he could feel it—every movement, every glance she gave, was infused with character. She was always effortlessly in the moment.

He often found himself swept along by her rhythm.

And actors like Wu Qingchun? True masters of their craft. Gu Yi had seen several of his films—one moment he was a pitiful beggar, the next, he was a ruthless kingpin. Watching him act live on set was nothing short of a masterclass.

---

“It’s Teacher Gu’s stalker hour again.”

Gu Yi: “Please mind your words. It’s called learning.”

Since joining the film crew, Gu Yi had made a habit of sharing his filming experience in the Crown group chat.

Although the group was still active during their time as a limited project, they all knew that once it disbanded, any of them could very well end up acting too.

—Unless Crown became so famous that they could afford to do whatever they wanted in the entertainment world.

Gu Yi’s updates had become a file in the group chat.

The six-person chat was always lively, and even more so now with Ke Rua the cat included.

Yang Ting loved posting absurd memes. Liu Junyuan and He Zhao shared their music and dance projects. Ji Chi, as the leader, kept things balanced and organized. And Xie Xingjia—

Gu Yi was convinced he’d emptied out every corner of the internet to find that many cat stickers.

Since learning how to use them, Xingjia had drastically cut down on actual words. Now he answered almost everything with cat emojis.

“Have some respect for us, please.”

“If you send one more cat emoji, Teacher Gu is posting a chemistry paper!”

Xingjia responded with a simple: “……”

Gu Yi: “What a coincidence.”

Yang Ting: “A Research Study on Why a Black Cat Must Be Named Manganese Dioxide?”

He Zhao, who’d just been sharing a dance video, finally chimed in: “Can we please let go of the manganese dioxide thing?”

After hanging around Gu Yi for so long, he now couldn’t look at a medicine box without checking the active ingredients.

“We can’t let it go,” Yang Ting declared. “Let’s just pray Ke Rua doesn’t grow into a muscle-cat.”

“Don’t even think about it. That visual’s horrifying.”

The mention of manganese dioxide reminded Gu Yi—he’d accumulated enough practice problems by now. He logged into his streaming platform and uploaded the questions he’d been working on.

He didn’t have time to livestream, but posting his solutions was still doable.

He didn’t stream live—he just quietly uploaded them to his personal account.

[Orange Peel]: “……”

That was the trouble with being a die-hard fan—she always got his updates first.

Thankfully, Orange Peel had already infiltrated the civil service exam forums. She wasn’t taking the test herself, but she had plenty of friends who were, and someone was bound to benefit.

Still, she wanted to ask: it had been a month since Gu Yi joined the film crew. No posts, no selfies—and when he finally did post, it was a problem set? Did he know how this made someone with terrible grades feel?

“If you don’t start posting again, Ke Rua’s going to be more famous than you!”

She was dying to know how Gu Yi was doing on the A Letter on My Desk set. She’d seen that Gossip Island thread. When someone mentioned his name as a contender, her heart had actually skipped.

Maybe anything’s possible… right?

She was seriously looking forward to Gu Yi’s take on Shen Yao.

---

Meanwhile, in the civil service prep group chat:

[“Teacher Gu… truly merciful.”]

[“Sorry, I just finished reading the original A Letter on My Desk—ahem, mostly to support Teacher Gu.”]

[“Go download the questions!! His answer sheets are amazing! He’s compiled all the newest and trickiest problems from this year’s provincial exams.”]

[“His logic is insane, especially for deductive reasoning. I totally bombed that section last year.”]

[“And the chemistry knowledge—how long did he spend on that?”]

[“Words can’t express it—just two: Gu Sect.”]

[“Gu Sect.”]

Civil service fans had once fiercely criticized Battle of the Stars and A Letter on My Desk, insisting that Gu Yi’s talents should be used to cultivate the future of the nation, not wasted on celebrity fluff.

Idol fans scoffed at this. Age-wise, they were the blooming flowers of the nation, thank you very much.

Now Gu Yi had gone quiet for a full month—and returned with… a worksheet?

The civil service crowd exploded in glee.

[“Teacher Gu cares about me!”]

The idol fans: “……”

Fortunately, they still had Summer Bloom to cling to.

Though filming for A Letter on My Desk wasn’t public, the crew occasionally shared updates. And just like Crown’s official socials, even on set, Gu Yi came off as diligent and focused.

[“Teacher Gu really is a scholarly idol.”]

[“Could we maybe get a glance at the camera? A head-on shot, please!”]

[“But even a profile! Even the back of his head! It’s still so good-looking!”]

[“From the way Teacher Gu looks, I swear he’s writing a dissertation.”]

[“I think so too…”]

Fans might complain, but truthfully, Gu Yi wasn’t slacking off at home scratching his feet. And to be fair, since Crown was formed, none of the members had been especially active online. They all took a low-key, relaxed approach to promotions. Over time, fans had simply gotten used to it.

[“Let’s be real, Teacher Gu has posted.”]

[“When, where, how?”]

[“Didn’t his last update happen 29 days and 4 hours ago?”]

Fans: “……”

Such precise calculation—an immaculate sense of time.

The catch? That post from 29 days and 4 hours ago… featured none other than the cat that almost got named Manganese Dioxide.

[“I’m breaking down.”]

[“Wait—Xie Xingjia’s last post was also about the cat. That makes me feel better.”]

[“+1. At least Gu Yi has an excuse. Xingjia doesn’t.”]

Quietly, Gu Yi’s fans migrated to Xingjia’s feed. And upon seeing the equally barren updates, they felt a strange sense of inner peace. They weren’t alone.

---

Meanwhile, Gu Yi, watching his fandom’s internal meltdown: “……”

The reason he didn’t like posting?

When it came to technical terms in his field, he could identify them instantly. Even with tricky questions, he could parse the structure, distill the meaning, and execute efficiently.

But social media… was a little more complicated.

He didn’t know how to pose. Outside of acting, facing a camera made him feel stiff and awkward.

So he messaged Yuan Cheng.

The manager replied in record time: Just post a couple of pictures with the cat.

Gu Yi quietly uploaded two photos.

[“The kitty is so cute!!”]

[“Our poor Ke Rua, choked by the cruel hands of destiny.”]

[“Little kitty, come let auntie give you a kiss~”]

[“I totally ignored Teacher Gu at first glance. Sorry, but the cat is too adorable.”]

Gu Yi: “……”

That day, all six members of Crown miraculously updated their socials at once—with cat photos.

To fans, this felt like a calculated tactic: using the cat as a smokescreen to avoid the reality that they never posted.

Some fans even jokingly declared that, since Gu Yi had written tens of thousands of words for his civil service followers, his updates should match that effort—say, ten thousand selfies?

According to anonymous sources, after that comment went viral and hit ten thousand likes, Gu Yi didn’t dare log on again for the rest of the day.

---

“Xiao Gu, I’m filming a scene with you later today,” Wu Qingchun flagged him down early that morning. “Let’s chat through how to play it.”

“Sure.”

Wu wandered off with his script.

Watching the exchange, the assistant director chuckled and said to Sun Youming, “Old Wu’s impressed.”

Wu Qingchun had a sharp tongue but undeniable talent.

In this industry, there were all kinds of people. Wu’s biggest flaw was his mouth—personally, he wasn’t a bad man.

If he didn’t like someone, he’d make it obvious. But if he did, he was the first to acknowledge their ability.

“I know,” Sun Youming replied. “I heard he even gave Suiyue Entertainment a heads-up.”

Sun Youming was also aware of the negative press Xin Ruchen’s team had planted. He didn’t step in—not because he approved, but because Suiyue Entertainment was one of the biggest production companies in the business. He often worked with them for funding.

If Xin Ruchen had been cast in A Letter on My Desk, Sun Youming would’ve had no trouble securing their support.

But now, the less people expected of Gu Yi, the greater the payoff would be when the film released.

Yes, he was frustrated. But venting now would be meaningless. He’d let the finished film speak for itself.

No matter what, Gu Yi would have to win over the audience with his own ability.

---

After reviewing the scenes he was filming that day, Gu Yi went to chat with Wu Qingchun.

They didn’t share many scenes in the film—but today’s was one of the most important.

Gu Yi hadn’t spoken much with Wu before. The moment he sat down, he realized Wu was very talkative—he didn’t even need to ask questions; Wu filled the silence himself. Gu Yi couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

Gu Yi: “……”

Which was fine. He wasn’t a talker either.

But the more he listened, the more he realized—everything Wu was saying was gold.

Wu had been acting for thirty years. He was already doing theatre before Gu Yi was even born.

By the end, Gu Yi was taking notes.

Wu looked at him with an expression that clearly said, finally, a teachable kid.

The assistant director watching nearby couldn’t help but grin.

But he understood too—Wu had spent his youth playing supporting roles. When he was young, he supported male leads his age; now that he was older, he supported the next generation. His peers might not have respected him, but a young actor like Gu Yi earnestly seeking his guidance? That was rare.

On the A Letter on My Desk set, Sun Youming was the undisputed authority. No actor, no matter how big, could challenge his position.

But in other productions, it wasn’t always like that.

There were plenty of actors who did whatever they wanted—people who had never worked with Sun Youming, but thrived in their own circles nonetheless.

Until now, Gu Yi had only watched Wu Qingchun’s acting from the sidelines. He hadn’t understood what was going on in Wu’s mind as he played those roles.

But now… he was starting to get it.