The actors had imagined how the final scene would be filmed. They had even braced themselves for endless retakes.

So when Sun Youming announced it was a one-take success, the whole cast wore expressions of surprise—and confusion.

Qi Miao forced herself to steady her racing heart. She had the most face-offs with Gu Yi in this scene. She remembered the look in his eyes as he turned to her.

In that moment, Qi Miao clearly realized—she had been pulled into it by Gu Yi.

The emotions belonging to Shen Yao had been transmitted to Yu Ying, and from there, they swept her into the role completely.

The longer she worked with Gu Yi, the more Qi Miao became aware of how terrifying he was.

She couldn’t see where his limits ended.

Among all the roles Qi Miao had encountered, Shen Yao was already one of the hardest to portray. Roles like this usually went to seasoned veterans with years of experience.

Gu Yi didn’t have that kind of resume—or rather, he used pure talent to deliver a performance that matched any veteran, and the further the filming went, the more unnerving it became.

Qi Miao muttered to her manager, “Now I understand what ‘the rising tide’ means.”

In the idol world, someone her age would already be considered past their prime. But in the world of film, she was still a rising star year after year.

The film industry was drying up faster than television—more insular, with far stricter standards for both looks and skill.

Qi Miao had once won Best New Actress at the Yunxing Awards and was considered one of the stronger female performers of her generation. She’d acted opposite peers and even younger talents—but none had ever made her feel as threatened as Gu Yi.

Qi Miao couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the actors who would inevitably have to go up against him.

Ever since casting was announced for A Letter on My Desk, press releases had been circulating from various agencies—mostly statements of regret from actors who had failed to land the role of Shen Yao.

Qi Miao had thought their regret was understandable.

But now, she figured: once A Letter on My Desk hit theaters, they’d be even more regretful.

…

Sun Youming could hardly stop smiling. The hardest scene had gone off without a hitch—an omen, if anything. The scenes that followed weren’t as pivotal. If they could keep up this pace, the shoot might even wrap ahead of schedule.

Sun Youming believed he had a touch of luck. If he hadn’t taken a friend’s random recommendation seriously, he never would’ve discovered Gu Yi. And A Letter on My Desk would’ve been endlessly delayed.

Gu Yi was like an uncut gem—now starting to gleam after the first polish.

And sure enough, the remaining shoot went even faster than expected. Many of Gu Yi’s scenes were done in a single take.

One-take shots weren’t exactly common in film.

Movies demanded a higher level of visual precision. On the big screen, even the smallest flaw could be magnified. What might look iconic in the end was usually born of painstaking tweaks: an actor’s expression, their gestures, their posture… sometimes corrected dozens of times over.

In fact, many actors who dazzled on the silver screen would seem shockingly average on television.

TV productions moved faster, and directors didn’t always have the patience to correct an actor’s flaws. A single scene could have multiple lines. A full series required much more filming time than a movie—and it was this grind that made so many actors fall into formulaic habits.

To Sun Youming’s eyes, Gu Yi’s last few scenes were almost flawless.

And Sun wasn’t the kind of director obsessed with zero-defect shots. Those directors—usually from cinematography backgrounds—had an innate fixation on camera work. What they created weren’t just movies, but museum pieces.

Yes, those pieces were exquisite—but they often gave off a cold, inaccessible air.

A Letter on My Desk was a story about humanity. It had to feel grounded.

Sun Youming didn’t even demand that the rest of the scenes match the final one’s performance.

Just like Gu Yi had said—he couldn’t explain how a scene should be acted. He went by instinct.

Many classic movie moments in film history came from a flash of inspiration—a spark that appeared at just the right moment in the right place. Recreating that later? Impossible.

…

After over two weeks of continuous filming, the A Letter on My Desk team wrapped up all its scenes at the Northwest Film Base. Gu Yi and Qi Miao still had a few scenes to reshoot overseas, but for the rest of the cast, it was officially a wrap.

Gu Yi had become the undisputed acting ace of the entire crew.

He was the type of actor crew members loved—low maintenance, quiet, and hardworking. He saved them all time and effort. As the male lead, he usually kept a low profile off-camera. But the moment filming started, his presence exploded.

At the wrap party, nearly every crew member added Gu Yi on WeChat, and he handed out quite a few autographs.

Wu Qingchun clutched his wine glass, giving a farewell speech that was especially heartfelt and sincere.

When Gu Yi had first arrived on set, Wu hadn’t thought much of him—and had made quite a few sharp comments. Now that their relationship had warmed, Wu couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. That night, he told Gu Yi, “I believe in you,” no less than a dozen times.

“Old Wu’s getting emotional,” the assistant director chuckled. “By the way, did we ever retract that press release?”

“Nope,” Sun Youming replied. “But who cares? You think a hot-headed young actor would even pay attention to that kind of thing?”

Wu Qingchun and Xin Ruchen were represented by the same agent, but Suiyue Entertainment’s main focus had always been Xin Ruchen. Wu Qingchun, despite his seniority, had spent his whole career playing supporting roles.

The batch of actors who’d once played leads in their youth were now mostly playing fathers of the leads. And someone like Wu Qingchun—forever a supporting actor—was even less likely to break through.

Among the younger generation of actors, Xin Ruchen’s acting was decent. But for industry veterans like Sun Youming, it was clear as day—if Xin Ruchen weren’t backed by Suiyue Entertainment, it would’ve been no easy feat for him to win Best Supporting Actor at the Yunxing Awards.

“Gu Yi’s really something else,” the assistant director said, glancing at Sun Youming. “Kids like him are rare these days—you better keep a good hold on him.”

Sun Youming shot him a look. “You think I need reminding?”

With Gu Yi’s kind of talent in front of the camera, Sun Youming was determined not to let it go to waste.

Once the wrap party concluded, Gu Yi and Qi Miao flew abroad to finish filming a few school scenes. Since the content was relatively simple, Sun Youming didn’t accompany them—the assistant director took over on set.

After that, Gu Yi didn’t return to the crew. He went back to S City.

He had a packed schedule toward the year’s end. First on the list was Vic’s annual popularity ranking. Since signing with Sun Youming’s studio, Gu Yi’s contract with Xingyao Entertainment only obligated him to participate in this one remaining event.

The rest of his time was consumed by the various invitations CROWN received. Yuan Cheng helped filter them, and their calendar quickly became tight.

The Vic popularity poll was the most important event of the year for the group. For members of Team A, the rankings directly influenced the resources they received—so they had to maintain their standing at all costs.

For members like Gu Yi, who were currently in Team J, this was their one and only chance all year to appear on camera.

Those ranked lower fought to climb. Those at the top fought to hold their ground. Most Vic members were barely known in the broader entertainment world, little more than invisible background noise—but on the stage of the popularity poll, their battles were just as fierce as any between A-list stars.

By the time Gu Yi wrapped filming A Letter on My Desk, there were only ten days left before the voting closed.

Xingyao Entertainment had started promotion early. Some members began campaigning for themselves three to four months in advance. Gu Yi, however, had barely spared the matter a thought—he wasn’t even in the fan group chat, and had no clue how to vote for himself.

So when he opened the voting site and glanced at the rankings, he blinked. “Wait… how am I ninth?”

Liu Wei: “…”

She could tell—Gu Yi was genuinely surprised. But if the other Vic members heard him say that, they’d just assume he was being a humblebragger.

First place in Battle of the Stars’ public vote, CROWN’s centre position, a record-breaking debut album with Summer Bloom, and now even starring in a Sun Youming film—and he’s surprised he’s ninth?

After the popularity poll opened, marketing accounts began tracking Gu Yi’s ranking in real time.

With him sitting at ninth, their commentary was laced with mockery.

Why? Because compared to Gu Yi’s popularity, most of the other Vic members barely registered. Yet somehow, they were ranking higher than him in Xingyao Entertainment’s internal poll. What did that say?

Pure self-delusion.

The reality was, Gu Yi’s fans simply refused to vote.

Ever since Gu Yi’s debut with CROWN, he had never promoted himself deliberately. But any fan who dug even a little would quickly discover just how badly he’d been treated within Vic—from collapsing and landing in the hospital before Battle of the Stars, to the things Zhu Yu had said during his appearance on Take It Slow.

Voting in this poll only meant lining Xingyao’s pockets. Gu Yi’s fans had zero interest in playing along.

Gu Yi felt the same.

Objectively speaking, only about 20% of him was still tied to Xingyao. Legally, the contract still obligated him to participate in the popularity poll—but there were no clauses demanding he maintain or push his ranking.

So even after learning about the poll, Gu Yi didn’t say a word about it on Weibo.

A week before the poll closed, Gu Yi received a message out of the blue.

He wouldn’t have even remembered they were WeChat friends if Zhu Yu hadn’t messaged him. Gu Yi vaguely recalled Liu Wei mentioning Zhu Yu was no longer under Shao Jing and had switched to another agent.

When he saw the message, his face turned into a perfect “elder-on-the-subway-using-a-smartphone” meme.

Zhu Yu… was asking him to promote his votes.

He was that direct, and Gu Yi genuinely didn’t know how to respond.

Unbelievable.

Now he finally understood how Zhu Yu had managed to scrape his way up the Vic hierarchy.

The man could bend or break as needed.

Shao Jing had treated him like family—but the moment Zhu Yu felt the resources no longer matched his ambitions, he didn’t hesitate to cast the man aside.

Gu Yi and Zhu Yu had been rivals, even enemies. And yet here Zhu Yu was, shamelessly asking for a favour, without the slightest trace of guilt.

Gu Yi forwarded the message to Liu Wei.

“Just ignore him,” Liu Wei said. “Ever since Take It Slow ended on Qingning TV, Zhu Yu’s resources have taken a dive. His popularity in the group is dropping fast.”

Take It Slow had boosted Zhu Yu’s public recognition, so he’d cut down on Vic-related appearances, and rarely participated in Team A events anymore.

But after the incident surrounding Explosion, fans of other Vic members had started mocking Zhu Yu more and more. He still tried to stir up buzz with fake CPs involving popular members—but that trick was beginning to wear thin.

Gu Yi had gotten lucky and avoided being dragged down. Others couldn’t count on having the same luck.

“This time around, there’s a good chance Zhu Yu won’t make it into Team A. He’s ranked twelfth right now.”

Team A only had ten members.

So yes, it was a very real risk.