Before Battle of the Stars aired, the contestants didn’t know their own popularity rankings, but viewers could see the real-time leaderboard on the official voting platform—which would close two hours before the broadcast began. So naturally, every fandom went all-in with voting until the very last second.

Gu Yi’s current ranking was 33rd—just within the top third.

He’d gained some buzz online recently, but lacked dedicated superfans. That he could reach this ranking at all was already thanks to his livestream followers rallying behind him.

Orange Peel had just finished casting her vote when her friend dropped a link into their chat.

“I’m so mad my soul just left my body. Did Gu Laoshi not bring his phone?”

“Probably got confiscated by the production team by now,” Orange Peel replied, then clicked the link anyway.

“Why are you sending me Zhu Yu stuff?”

“Just watch it. See what he said.”

Everyone who had followed Vic for a while knew Gu Yi and Zhu Yu shared the same manager. When Orange Peel had first become a fan of Gu Yi, many of her fellow fans also supported Zhu Yu—but for some reason, he never clicked with her the same way.

Especially not after what she’d seen.

Back when Gu Yi was still virtually unknown, he’d tried to interact with Zhu Yu several times online. There was never any response.

Now that Gu Yi had finally gained some traction, Zhu Yu was suddenly reposting his Weibo updates. Gu Yi didn’t respond, and Zhu Yu’s fans piled on, dragging Gu Yi for days.

It was obvious bullying—because Gu Yi didn’t have a strong fanbase to fight back.

Orange Peel had never felt more bitter on his behalf.

When the video loaded and she saw what Zhu Yu had said, even someone as mild-mannered as Orange Peel felt her blood boil.

What kind of delusional performance was this?

The clip was from Take It Slow, Life, a laid-back reality show on Green Lime TV that featured celebrity guests chatting and doing household chores—letting audiences see their more “human” sides.

In the most recent episode, Zhu Yu shared the story of his early days in Vic.

He spoke tearfully about how one of his fellow trainees had made him feel inferior from the moment he joined.

“All the resources went to him first. He got first pick of costumes, dance solos, even instructors…”

“Our debut stage was the first time I ever saw a real audience. I was so excited—it felt like my dream was finally coming true. But do you know what the very first thing they told me was?”

At this, Zhu Yu’s eyes turned red. He choked on his words, barely able to hold back tears.

Zhu Yu played the role of “younger brother” on the show, and the rest of the cast doted on him. When they saw him get emotional, even the female guests looked like they might cry.

“They said, ‘Zhu Yu, don’t block his spotlight.’”

“That experience was horrible. Even now, I still have nightmares about it.”

“For a long time, I couldn’t face the stage—or myself.”

He never said a name. But fans didn’t need one.

The clues were all there:

• Had great resources early on.
• Shared the same manager as Zhu Yu.
• Exceptionally good-looking.
• Recently interacted with Zhu Yu at their manager’s request.

It was obvious who he meant.

“If that guy had stayed irrelevant, Zhu Yu probably wouldn’t even be this upset.”

“I’d be furious too, honestly. Bullied during debut, then forced to repost that guy’s content now that he’s getting attention.”

“He didn’t even acknowledge Zhu Yu’s repost! Classic bully move.”

“Gross. Isn’t he on Battle of the Stars right now?”

Green Lime TV’s Take It Slow was already a hit, far more popular than the yet-to-premiere Battle of the Stars. Zhu Yu had more clout than Gu Yi to begin with, and now that this episode aired, clips of his sob story were being circulated by every gossip account on the internet.

Zhu Yu’s fans were outraged. Even casual viewers were swayed by the emotional footage.

“What’s Gu Yi so proud of? Just because he got cast on Battle?”

“All you people who fell for his face—please reconsider. Go watch his early performances.”

“He’s just trash. Serves him right to stay irrelevant forever.”

“@BattleOfTheStars Let Gu Yi shine all on his own, please don’t let him block anyone else’s light.”

Orange Peel was absolutely fuming.

Yes, Gu Yi and Zhu Yu had the same manager. But everyone in Vic knew who the favourite was—and it sure wasn’t Gu Yi.

“Gu Emperor?” What emperor?

He dropped from A-Team all the way to J-Team!

And of course Zhu Yu knew when Battle was airing. Yet he chose the day before the premiere to go on national TV and cry about being overshadowed.

Orange Peel remembered very clearly: when Gu Yi first debuted, everyone criticized his awkward stage presence. He didn’t know how to find the camera. His dancing was clumsy. If he accidentally blocked someone, sure—it was possible.

But Zhu Yu being overshadowed by Gu Yi?

That was laughable.

And now Gu Yi couldn’t even respond.

So Orange Peel brewed a cup of coffee, sat down at her keyboard, and started typing like a woman possessed.

If Gu Yi couldn’t defend himself, then she would.

---

Battle of the Stars officially premiered at 6 PM on Saturday.

As the unofficial assistant director of women’s affairs, lead dancer of the Hecheng Community square dancing team, and overall local hero, Gu Yi had a dedicated fanbase waiting at home.

The moment he left for the show, Auntie Wang had posted a message in the neighbourhood group chat, and all the uncles and aunties had promptly tuned into Jiangshi TV to support their boy.

Auntie Wang and her daughter sat down together, turned on the TV, and opened the Battle livestream.

What greeted them was a flood of on-screen comments:

“Gu Yi get out of Battle of the Stars.”
“Trash Gu Yi, go home.”
“Fake face, no talent, bye.”

The screen was absolutely packed.

Auntie Wang’s daughter quickly turned off the comments.

“Are they… are they cursing out Xiao Gu?”

Auntie Wang was a pretty trendy auntie—she usually kept the comments on while watching videos. She saw her daughter’s action and quickly stopped her.

“Don’t turn them off. Let me see.”

She put on her reading glasses and shook her head. “That’s why people should read more. Look at them—saying the same two lines over and over. Gives me a headache just looking at it.”

“Why are they yelling at Xiao Gu? He’s such a good kid.”

Before Gu Yi’s segment aired, Auntie Wang’s daughter pulled up the Take It Slow clip where Zhu Yu delivered his monologue and played it for her.

After watching it, Auntie Wang looked baffled. “This boy sure holds a grudge. He even remembers the size of the fruit he got? Should we start handing out snacks with a ruler?”

“Everyone who does square dancing knows—if the person in front of you blocks your line, how’s anyone in the back supposed to be seen?”

“And frankly, just being objective here—he’s just not as good-looking as Xiao Gu. I want to see Xiao Gu. I don’t want to look at him.”

Her daughter: “…”

Honestly, all she needed was her mom’s mouth.

“They’re all just waiting for Xiao Gu to embarrass himself, huh? I saw a bunch of people mocking his lack of talent.”

Auntie Wang sighed. “It’s just as well he’s only there for a week. Sooner he’s back, the better.”

---

Battle of the Stars had low expectations going in, which, ironically, worked in its favour. Once the show began airing, viewers were pleasantly surprised.

The mentors weren’t A-listers, but they had real credentials—and since none of them relied on popularity for their careers, their critiques came off far more fair and honest.

Idol survival shows had long been popular, but recent ones had left a bad taste: endless editing tricks, blatant favouritism, and companies essentially buying debut slots. Fans would vote until midnight only to see their faves lose to some insider’s overnight “miracle.”

It was no wonder the genre was on life support.

So Battle came out swinging. Fast-paced. Equal screen time for all. No do-overs.

Sure, there were some familiar faces returning for a second (or third) chance, and a few underdogs like Gu Yi, barely noticed by their own agencies. But despite all that, the performances so far held their own.

“Yin Zhiyuan’s face is average, but when he performs? The stage presence!”
“+1. Wu Jie’s a beast too! I thought he was the cute type—turns out he’s got serious power.”
“When’s Gu Yi up?”
“With how fast this show moves, and how harsh the judges are, someone like him probably won’t make it past this round.”
“Have you seen his Vic group stages? I couldn’t even finish them.”
“What a waste of a face.”

While the comment section shredded him, Gu Yi stood backstage, waiting.

Contestants were going up in order of company, and Gu Yi’s group—Xingyao Entertainment—was 27th. Right before him was Baiqian Entertainment, one of the top agencies in the industry.

Even from backstage, Gu Yi could hear the deafening cheers from the crowd.

Baiqian had sent three trainees, currently ranked 1st, 2nd, and 3rd on the popularity charts.

“The mentors actually gave them an S rating!”
“First S of this group, right?”
“Glad I’m not going after them.”

No matter how hard he tried to tune it out, Gu Yi could still hear whispers from nearby contestants. Feel the stares.

And then, the host’s voice boomed through the venue:

“Next up—Xingyao Entertainment’s Gu Yi!”

The comment stream stuttered for a moment.

“The show probably wants to get rid of him quickly.”
“Any act that comes after Baiqian would have pressure, but this guy? No talent to begin with.”
“Gu Yi, get off the stage already!”

Just as the comments exploded, a single figure stepped into the spotlight.

He wore only a plain white shirt and black trousers—so simple it was almost barebones.

But it worked.

Making simplicity look stunning is a rare skill. Gu Yi pulled it off effortlessly.

Maybe he was wearing light makeup, but all the audience saw was this:

When this man stood on stage, he was the spotlight.

He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to move. Just by being there, he captured everyone’s attention.

“!!!!”
“How is he this photogenic?! I thought his promo pics were already peak!”
“I finally understand what Zhu Yu meant—if anyone blocked Gu Yi right now, I’d be the first to tell them to move!”
“Shut off the comments, I’m trying to enjoy this man’s face!”

Once centre stage, Gu Yi bowed respectfully to the judges.

“Esteemed mentors, today I’ll be performing ‘Endless City.’”

“‘Endless City’?”

A song by legendary vocalist Luo Hong, “Endless City” wasn’t technically difficult, but it demanded a powerful emotional delivery. Idol contestants usually avoided it. It was more of a go-to for singing competitions.

“Is Gu Yi planning to go out with a bang?”