After getting lavishly praised by the aunties and uncles, even Gu Yi—thick-skinned as he was—felt a little embarrassed. So he quietly slipped out of the neighbourhood group chat.

“Xiao Gu, you’re still there, right?”

Auntie Wang poked him. Gu Yi replied with a harmless emoji.

The next second, he found himself added to a new group chat called Hecheng Community: One Big Family, where Auntie Wang happened to be an admin.

And that was the moment Gu Yi realized:
He’d just become a core pillar of the community.

Even though… he hadn’t actually done anything?

“Don’t feel pressured, Xiao Gu,” Auntie Wang messaged. “We didn’t add you to make you do anything. It’s just that you’ve done so much for the community—we can’t treat you like an outsider.”

Gu Yi replied: “Auntie, I understand.”

He’d be heading to the Battle of the Stars filming site in a few days, and knowing he’d be away for a while, Auntie Wang sent over another round of home-cooked meals.

He’d definitely gained weight since first arriving in this world—not much, but enough to no longer look like a walking skeleton. Still slim, but human again.

---

That evening, Gu Yi finally checked in on his study group chat, where his fans were busy discussing the real questions from that day’s provincial exam.

“Totally flunked current affairs. Spent too much time on the legal questions.”
“Who even knows if the Treaty of Chanyuan is in Zizhi Tongjian??”
“Actually, that question’s not hard. Even if you don’t know exactly where Chanyuan falls, Huang Chao’s rebellion was at the end of the Tang Dynasty. Chanyuan was Song, Jingnan Rebellion was Ming, and the Revolt of the Three Feudatories was Qing. So the Zizhi Tongjian most likely included Huang Chao.”
“Why is no one talking about the quantitative and data analysis questions?”
“Sobs—those were actually my strongest sections today.”
“Same.”
“People on Weibo keep saying those sections were brutal, but honestly…”
“…I didn’t think they were that bad.”

Meanwhile, stealth fan Orange Peel couldn’t help but vent her feelings in an online forum:

“I’m genuinely terrified that my fave is going to become a full-time civil service exam teacher 😭😭😭”
“Lighting a candle… He’s been on the education leaderboard for half a month already. I can’t even understand the stuff he teaches anymore. We’ve lost all connection.”
“I think I know who your fave is… And yeah, he’s amazing. I’m already a fan now.”
“GIVE ME BACK MY IDOL 😭😭😭”

After the provincial exam ended, Weibo was flooded with student rants:

“My political career ended before it began.”
“Little Ge didn’t want to help build a better countryside, but I do! Too bad the C-Province exam doesn’t want me.”
“In Gu Ge We Trust—didn’t flunk! Gu Laoshi, you’re my war god! Only got two wrong in quant and data!”
“If I make it to the interview stage, I’ll build a shrine to Teacher Gu.”

Gu Yi had already built up some buzz through his livestreams, but the post-exam social media wave launched him straight to the trending list. Screenshots and clips from his sessions were shared everywhere.

“…Now I understand why his fans can actually focus during class.”
“What a hidden gem! If my teacher looked like this, I’d get an 80 on logic. (Delusional but sincere.)”
“Don’t just look at the face! Listen to the way he explains—it’s ridiculously clear.”
“In summary: Gu Laoshi is god.”

In a single night, Gu Yi gained half a million new followers.

The Battle of the Stars production team wasted no time. That same day, they dropped his official promo video.

The show featured 99 contestants, and ahead of its premiere, Jiangshi TV released behind-the-scenes clips for each one. Although the official headshots had been a disaster, the video editors clearly gave the promotional cuts their all.

Despite industry gossip predicting a flop, the production team was pulling out every stop.

Fans of other popular trainees were also pleased with the videos.

Gu Yi, riding the provincial exam buzz, was now the it contestant. Battle of the Stars had to milk it.

His video was simple: just a short self-introduction. No performance, no vocals—clean and minimalist.

But that face needed no help.

No filters, no gimmicks, no angles—just raw, arresting visuals. Even fans who already knew what he looked like were stunned all over again.

Eyes like stars, gaze like the ocean.

In the entire entertainment industry, you’d be hard-pressed to find a face that could top his.

The show’s crew was so pleased they pinned the video, with the cameraman proudly bragging it was his best work yet.

They’d expected the fans to shower praise again. But once the video dropped, the comment section turned out… a little different:

“What a waste. He should be teaching, not idol-ing.”
“Even a donkey on a production line gets more rest. Please come back and teach 🫠”
“I’m banging on my desk for a new livestream, Teacher Gu!”
“It’s you guys who stole Teacher Gu, isn’t it? 😤😡💢🙉”
“I’m dispatching my older brother to punch you all.”

Battle of the Stars production team: “…”

Something about this audience doesn’t feel right.

Still, the plan worked. Gu Yi trended again. And while the show didn’t launch with blockbuster hype, it wasn’t the trainwreck everyone predicted either.

Even their ad slots slowly started filling up.

—

Filming was set on the outskirts of S City. During the shoot, all 99 contestants would live in dorms without phones.

Before Gu Yi left, Shao Jing made a rare appearance to see him off—and spent the whole ride nagging.

“Make sure to promote Xingyao during your intro. Mention Vic. Hype up the company.”
“And give Zhu Yu a shout-out—say he taught you how to dance, or that he’s helped you backstage.”
“We’re all in the same company. Support each other.”
“You only got this spot because Zhu Yu put in a good word.”

Shao Jing kept yapping. Gu Yi let it all pass in one ear and out the other.

After that disaster at Gu Yi’s residential complex—where the security guard nearly tackled him—Shao Jing had toned down his attitude significantly.

He’d also caught wind of a rumour: another agent in the company had taken a liking to Gu Yi and was whispering in the CEO’s ear, angling to poach him.

Shao Jing knew perfectly well how he’d treated Gu Yi.

Still, it was undeniable—Gu Yi had heat now. Even if it was short-lived, it pushed him into Vic’s upper tier.

Shao Jing didn’t believe for a second that Gu Yi could surpass Zhu Yu. Vic had been around too long, and Zhu Yu had already hit his peak fame.

When they arrived at the dormitory, Shao Jing got off the car first. Gu Yi followed behind, wheeling his suitcase up the stairs. He signed in, received his room key, the show uniform, and a printed schedule outlining the competition structure.

Battle of the Stars was set up to be intense. The first round was a solo performance from each contestant, evaluated and graded by the mentors. Starting from the second week, it would shift to team battles, with eliminations taking place every week.

In other words, to last long on this show, you needed two things: skill and popularity.

No one would be eliminated after the first round, meaning Gu Yi was guaranteed to stay at least one week.

His mindset was chill, almost monk-like. In terms of skill, he’d improved a bit thanks to recent training—but compared to the other contestants? He was still lagging. And as for popularity… before coming here, Gu Yi had checked the Weibo accounts of the other trainees.
Very few of them had fewer followers than he did.
Even now, after his recent spike in attention.

A little later, Gu Yi’s assigned roommates began arriving.

The dorms were set up as three-person suites—not bunk beds, but individual bedrooms with a shared common space.

Although the contestants’ daily lives wouldn’t be filmed 24/7, behind-the-scenes footage of their off-camera interactions would be compiled and shown to viewers. This had all been spelled out in the contract.

“Zhongsheng Entertainment. Wu Jie.”

“Sangu Films. Cui Jingran.”

“Xingyao Entertainment. Gu Yi.”

Zhongsheng was a well-known idol incubator, famous in the industry. Wu Jie was only nineteen, but his two senior groups were already top-tier, which meant even rookies like him enjoyed a decent level of attention.

That said, Wu Jie’s popularity within his company was only average.

Sangu Films, on the other hand, was an actor-focused agency. They managed several A-list actresses with national awards under their belts.

Unlike Wu Jie, Cui Jingran had an obvious air of pride.
Actors and idols were entirely different beasts.
With Sangu backing him, Cui didn’t have to worry about getting roles. His reason for joining Battle of the Stars was simply to boost his public visibility.

The contestants’ phones hadn’t been collected yet, so Gu Yi quickly sent Auntie Wang and the others a text letting them know he’d arrived safely.

The schedule for the show was packed—not just with performances and training, but also promotional activities: brand endorsements, photoshoots, magazine covers.

Gu Yi didn’t expect to be included in any of that, so he didn’t prepare much.

After check-in, the contestants would begin their first solo performances starting the next afternoon. At the same time, the official popularity platform for Battle of the Stars would go live.

Which was why, that afternoon—while they still had internet—most contestants were updating their Weibo accounts with pics and updates from the dorms.

Except one.

Orange Peel: “Where is my fave? Where is my HUGE, SHINY FAVE?”

Gu Yi’s last Weibo post was still the one before he fainted on livestream. Orange Peel was starting to suspect he had developed a phobia of showbiz.

Ever since that day, he’d posted zero selfies, zero updates, zero fan content. The only way she could “see” him was by powering through her math anxiety and logging into his livestreams.

A friend she had converted into a fellow Gu Yi stan offered some wise advice:
“You want to see Gu Yi? It’s easy.”

Orange Peel: “Curious face.”

“Become a resident of Hecheng Community.”

…Honestly? Not wrong.

Even though she was a bit emotionally scarred by his total lack of fanservice, Orange Peel still planted herself in front of Jiangshi TV before the first episode aired, all for the sake of seeing Gu Yi’s solo stage.

As a longtime fan, she knew full well—Gu Yi wasn’t exactly a powerhouse performer.

Most members of Vic hadn’t received proper training. Even the group’s “top-tier” members were no match for idols produced by specialized agencies. And Gu Yi? He wasn’t even ranked within Vic.

But still…
She had always hoped her little underdog would be seen.

Not just loved by her.

But loved by many, many more people.