Since their debut, CROWN had rarely appeared at fashion events.

At the Golden String Awards, they were even mocked by SEM stans for wearing domestic off-brand clothing.

Fashion endorsements were often seen as a key metric of a celebrity’s value—especially unforgiving for female stars. Fashion bloggers would scrutinize them from head to toe, identifying whether an outfit was ready-to-wear or haute couture, current season or last, and then pit them against other stars in brutally honest comparisons.

If the entertainment industry was already snobbish, the fashion world was its final boss.

CROWN had never ventured into the fashion scene—not compared to the two project groups that debuted from Idol X and Hot-Blooded Newcomers. CROWN’s fashion resources were practically nonexistent.

Still, the members never gave it much thought.

Until one day, they were informed that several luxury labels had offered to dress them—one of them even being brand C, endorsed by SEM.

Yuan Cheng glanced at them. “Where do you think a celebrity’s status comes from?”

—And that was why CROWN now had clothes to wear.

The Summer Bloom EP had landed like a bomb in the music scene. In terms of popularity, CROWN was now on par with Timee and TiX.

Not to mention Gu Yi had starred in Sun Youming’s A Letter on My Desk.

Sun Youming’s leads were darlings of the fashion world. Even though the film hadn’t been released yet, Gu Yi was already qualified to wear haute couture.

The mood at the fashion event was awkward for the group. They weren’t used to this kind of atmosphere. Still, when the photographer stepped forward, they cooperated for a group photo.

“Gu Yi, could we get a solo shot?”

Gu Yi nodded, turning to strike a pose for the camera.

Shortly after, these two photos made it onto the homepage of New F, a well-known fashion magazine.

[“Who said CROWN has no fashion sense?”]

[“Haha, you can tell they’re a bit stiff and conservative—but that’s what makes it look natural instead of overdone.”]

[“+1. Trying too hard can come off greasy. This clean, fresh vibe is way more attractive.”]

[“Why is no one praising Teacher Gu’s photo?! It’s stunning!”]

Technically speaking, Gu Yi didn’t rank among the top-tier celebrities attending the event.

But New F deliberately placed his photo first in the layout.

The backdrop was the same as everyone else’s. Gu Yi didn’t force a pose or try to be flashy. In the final shot, he was simply glancing quietly into the camera.

And yet—no matter how elaborate the backdrop, no matter how glamorous the styling—nothing compared to that one serene look, like ripples on spring water. The set had been carefully designed to make stars pop; most had to assert themselves to outshine it.

But Gu Yi didn’t need to.

Just by standing there, he was the focal point.

Both brands the members wore immediately claimed the photos. Gu Yi’s solo shot, in particular, was so striking that fans started changing their social media avatars to it en masse.

[“The most emotional end to the year—six months of stanning CROWN and this is the happiest I’ve been!”]

[“+1 +1 +1. The best content! The handsomest drop!”]

[“Feels like CROWN is that type of group that either doesn’t show up at all, or when they do, they deliver. Makes their rare appearances kinda thrilling.”]

[“I’m dying—so true. We are so starved.”]

Fans often complained about CROWN’s lack of activity. Since debut, that was their only real flaw. Aside from the Summer Bloom EP, their schedule was sparse—but whenever they did appear, they gave it everything they had.

[“Can you believe I only spent two yuan on CROWN this year?”]

[“I spent four—got a Summer Bloom album for my partner too.”]

[“I just couldn’t get tickets to the New Year gala…”]

[“+1. I even fantasized about them doing a concert someday… but realistically, they only have four songs. At this rate, a concert feels like a pipe dream.”]

[“Remaining humble forever.”]

The result of this fashion event? Several luxury brands reached out expressing interest in working with CROWN. The specifics were left to the manager to negotiate. The members themselves didn’t have strong preferences for any particular label.

Their full attention was on the upcoming MiiSound Awards.

Their new song, Black and Gray, wasn’t exactly niche, but it had a completely different vibe from the four songs on Summer Bloom. It was airy and soft, but with an addictive rhythm.

For the new album, the group wanted to experiment more. The overall mood would be similar to Summer Bloom, but the songs themselves would offer greater variety.

“Gu Yi, you’ve got a letter.”

Yuan Cheng approached with the cat in his arms, casually handing him an envelope. “Looks like it’s from a magazine—probably your article submission.”

By now, Yuan Cheng was used to Gu Yi’s many eccentric hobbies—like live-streaming civil service exam prep, or submitting papers to academic journals. As a manager, he’d given up trying to stop him.

How would one stop it, anyway? Tell Gu Yi it wasn’t part of his job description?

That live-stream, by the way, had more viewers than most e-commerce streams. Yuan Cheng had peeked in once and seen the screen flooded with phrases like “Gu Sect” and “A implies B, not-B implies not-A.” It felt like he’d stumbled into a giant pyramid scheme seminar.

And the paper… Well, his opinion aligned with Yang Ting’s.

His eyes hurt.

During a short break, Gu Yi opened the envelope.

Sure enough, it was a reply from the journal. The editor had written a long response, though they hadn’t confirmed acceptance—just asked him to check his email.

Since returning from filming A Letter on My Desk, Gu Yi had been so swamped that he’d forgotten to log into his email.

There it was: an email from The Chemist—sent days ago.

Inside, the editor had asked him a few follow-up questions.

Gu Yi frowned, carefully considering every word as he drafted his reply.

This paper had taken shape while he was on the film set. It had taken far longer to write than the one he’d sent to Chemistry and Life, and he’d been even more meticulous with every sentence.

The Chemist magazine didn’t just discuss chemistry—it spotlighted the lives of chemists too. Coincidentally, the male lead of A Letter on My Desk, Shen Yao, was a composite drawn from many real-life chemists. Gu Yi’s paper was a theoretical exploration built on the research of one such scientist.

Compared to his previous submission, this new paper contained far more experimental detail.

---

While Gu Yi sat deep in thought, the others didn’t disturb him. Even their singing practice grew quieter out of respect.

Yang Ting snapped a picture and posted it online with the caption:
[Professor Gu, lost in thought.]

As usual, once the photo went up, it triggered the standard round of fan adoration.

And that’s exactly what happened—until:

[“Wait a minute… isn’t that The Chemist magazine he’s holding?”]

[“Bi-monthly. Judging by the cover… yeah, that’s the one.”]

[“Here I am replying to my supervisor’s messages, and now I want to crawl into a hole. Out of every thousand people, only four make it. This is both depressing and despair-inducing.”]

[“Seriously, what’s the deal with this ‘four in a thousand’ thing? I’ve heard it so many times now.”]

[“250, obviously. What else?”]

^[1]T/N: As a Chinese slang term, 250 (二百五 èrbǎiwǔ) is a disparaging insult, and refers to somebody or something being stupid or useless and/or the general state of being stupid or useless.

And just like that, the topic quietly shifted from Gu Yi to the tragic existence of grad students, eccentric thesis writers, and supervisors who sounded like cult leaders. Fresh graduates shared their collective grief.

[“Seeing The Chemist during my procrastination break feels like spotting my supervisor’s merciful face.”]

[“+1, +1, +1. I’m no longer in the right headspace to cope with this.”]

[“@GuYi if your article hasn’t been accepted yet, would you consider sharing it with me?”]

[“AAAA just make me second author, I’m begging you!!”]

Yang Ting smugly turned off his phone.

Any time he started to doubt whether his teammate was a complete academic lunatic, the internet would rally to confirm it. Yes. Yes, he was.

Their incompatibility? Perfectly normal.

It wasn’t his fault.

It was Gu Yi’s fault.

Gu Yi spent quite a while answering the editor’s follow-up questions, even rechecking his draft line by line. Before he realized it, a long time had passed.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. We’ve pretty much hit our limit on rehearsal anyway,” someone replied. “Any more and we’d just be running on fumes.”

---

News of CROWN’s participation in the MiiSound Awards was officially announced the day before the ceremony.

[“My idol and my other favourite niche thing are actually crossing paths? What cosmic alignment is this?!”]

[“Wait—is it really the MiiSound Awards??”]

[“Yes! I love CROWN and I love the MiiSound stages every year.”]

[“CROWN is insane. Aren’t they the first idol group to ever perform at MiiSound?”]

Unlike other music award shows, the MiiSound Awards had a short history—just eight years.

The very first ceremony had been held in a high school gymnasium. Since then, its scale and influence had grown steadily each year.

What truly set MiiSound apart was that it had no formal award segments. Invited singers would sit in the audience while the host announced performers one by one. If your name was called, you went up and performed. That’s it.

In the third year of the awards, a singer notorious for lip-syncing was called onstage. He refused to perform and threw a tantrum in the audience. Later, he took to social media, attacking the MiiSound organizers and demanding they prove he’d ever lip-synced.

They never published proof.

But his guilt was already obvious to the public.

That incident sealed MiiSound’s reputation.

Talented performers wanted the invite. Less confident ones dreaded it—afraid they’d be called out without warning.

Still, the event was known for attracting genuine, skilled artists.

Its award categories were few—none of those bloated “Top 50 Songs of the Year” segments. Just five titles: Best Singer, Best Composer, Best Lyricist, Best Song, and Best Album. The ceremony itself was short. The focus was on performance.

As CROWN entered the venue, they noticed a mix of music veterans and up-and-coming newcomers—some they’d never heard of before.

They weren’t expecting to win anything.

Best Album? Off the table. Summer Bloom didn’t qualify as a full album.

Best Song and Best Singer? Only one of each per year, and Best Singer almost never went to groups. A few had been nominated before, but no group had ever won.

As for Best Composer and Best Lyricist, Gu Yi personally felt that Summer Bloom had both strong composition and lyrics—but again, only one winner per category, per year.

Yes, the Chinese music scene had declined over the years. But surely not so much that only one good song could be found in an entire year.

Gu Yi watched Liu Junyuan making the rounds, cheerfully chatting with several other musicians. By the time the ceremony started, he had gathered over a dozen autographs.

“I thought Yang Ting was our only extrovert,” Gu Yi whispered to Ji Chi.

“Our team’s all extroverts except Xie Xingjia,” Ji Chi replied. “The most extroverted one lectures in front of tens of thousands of people.”

Gu Yi: “……”

Right. That would be me.

Ethanol.