Chapter 45: The Film Crew Comes to Yun Chuan

Chapter 45: The Film Crew Comes to Yunchuan

In the following days, for nearly a week, Jian Ye was hesitant to go to school.

According to Li Xiangchi and others, outsiders came daily just to catch a glimpse of him.

But for the school’s recruitment efforts, Jian Ye still showed up.

Suddenly becoming a small-time celebrity at Yunchuan was something he wasn’t quite used to yet.

During class, students from other majors would crowd outside the dance studio, snapping photos every time he did splits or backbends and posting them online.

His roommates suggested he open a Weibo account—there were already many fans online hungry for content.

Jian Ye thought about it and agreed.

He did plan to enter the entertainment industry eventually, so having a fanbase now was definitely a good thing.

So he created a Weibo account with the ID “Jian Ye JY.”

“Bro Chi, take a random photo for me. I’ll post it,” Jian Ye said, handing his phone to Li Xiangchi.

Li Xiangchi was thrilled—his bro was about to become famous, and the whole dorm crew was hyped.

Recently, many people had asked for Jian Ye’s WeChat, but they’d all refused. Jian Ye was spoken for, a fact only they knew—they had to keep their mouths shut.

Li Xiangchi took a ton of casual pics of Jian Ye in the dorm.

Pretty boys really looked good from any angle.

“A Ye, even fresh-faced, you put those dolled-up D-listers to shame.”

Jian Ye flipped through the photos and picked one of himself zoning out over his textbook.

In the picture, Jian Ye held a pen like he was deep in thought, with a little curl of his slightly wavy hair sticking up—his trademark bedhead.

Liu Mingchang leaned over to peek. “Wow, my bro, you’ve got no celebrity airs about you.”

The photo was totally unposed, not looking staged at all—almost like it had been taken by a random passerby.

But that rough-around-the-edges feel gave it a strong sense of everyday life, making it more relatable to viewers.

“Jian Ye JY”: Finals prep mode. [Photo]

After posting, Jian Ye left it at that—he wasn’t messing about; he was genuinely studying. Since he hadn’t originally majored in dance, he had to start learning all the theoretical coursework from scratch.

The practical dance exam wouldn’t be a problem, but theory? No skipping the memorization.

Just then, the system tried to tempt him again.

“System 748: Need a Memory Card? Only 100 Green Tea Coins.”

“Jian Ye: Buzz off.”

“System 748: You’ve got coins now, why be so cheap?”

“Jian Ye: Unless absolutely necessary, I won’t waste items. Who do you think you’re dealing with? You think I can’t memorize this stuff? Tch!”

Jian Ye had his own pride. Thanks to his past acting experience, he had his own tricks for memorizing things.

He had a pretty good memory. If he used system shortcuts just to slack off, even he’d look down on himself.

On Weibo.

The fans quickly discovered this new account. At first, some thought it might be one of the fan accounts.

But once they saw the photo of Jian Ye in his dorm room, that possibility was immediately ruled out.

“OMG!!! Our boy finally made a Weibo!!!!”

“Why y’all acting like his moms? I’m different—I’d wife him up.”

“He’s only eighteen! You thirsty fans need to chill!”

“Jian Ye’s such a clueless cutie! His study grind is adorable! Ugh, gotta go—finals are killing me too!”

“Honestly, you’d never guess he’s in college. Dude looks like a high schooler, fr.”

“My baby got Weibo! As a stan, I’m gonna hype this everywhere!”

When Jian Ye finished reading and doing his exercises, then checked his phone again, his Weibo notifications were blowing up his phone.

He glanced at his follower count—it was already 20K. How?! He hadn’t even been on that long.

His WeChat was also flooded with messages.

Topping the list, naturally, was the pinned chat:

“Boss Yi on a Diet”: Studying? Saved the pic.

This guy really knew everything—already found out about the Weibo before Jian Ye even had a chance to say anything.

What CEO’s this free all day?

He replied with the “mind blown” dog meme and left it at that. There were also messages from classmates and Mo Huan—he gave them all quick replies.

Then he noticed a friend request from a stranger.

The message said: “Thank you for your autograph. I’ll wear these gloves to the competition.”

As soon as Jian Ye read it, he remembered that day when someone asked for his signature. The guy said it was for his friend, but the person standing next to him with bold red hair was actually the one who wanted it—a flashy-looking guy into racing.

Back then, Jian Ye had just made small talk because the other claimed to be a fan, but he barely knew the guy.

He didn’t add randos, but since this person genuinely liked his performances, Jian Ye thought for a moment, then typed under the message: “Gl at the race!” and hit decline.

Doing what you love is legit cool—everyone deserves respect.

If he ever blew up as an idol, he hoped his fans would love life and chase their dreams hard.

…

Another week passed, and finals week hit.

Different majors had slightly different exam dates, but dance was scheduled pretty early.

They spread the tests over three days and wrapped up everything.

They were tested on classical dance forms and drilled combos during basic training.

Among them, Jian Ye's butterfly dance leap and transition, whipping turns (fouetté-style), swallow-style spins, Yunmen grand roll (a signature classical Chinese dance move), and series of aerial flips were all executed with impeccable precision.

This segment of the exam was recorded by the school, so Jian Ye didn’t even need to post it himself on Weibo—the official account of Yun Chuan uploaded the year-end performance video of their classical dance department.

Instantly, the previously waning buzz came roaring back, thanks in no small part to Jian Ye’s fans.

“The ceiling of Yun Chuan’s dance studio might as well be torn down. If this guy jumps any higher, he’ll break right through it.”

“Light as a feather on takeoff, silent on landing. Classical dance is so beautiful—Mom, sign me up for classes!”

“I’m a college entrance exam candidate this year, and Yun Chuan is the only school I’m applying to. I'm putting all my eggs in the dance department basket!”

“Let’s be real, Jian Ye is truly born for this craft. His physique is just perfect. Classical dance already demands high standards from dancers, and he fits it flawlessly.”

“Agree with the professional assessment above. Just watching the video, you can tell his core is incredibly stable. Though lean, you can see the definition of his toned muscles.”

“Total outsider here—even I, who know nothing about dance, feel like Jian Ye’s movements are as graceful as a startled swan, as fluid as a roaming dragon [as described in classical Chinese poetry]. My vocabulary’s limited, but in short, it’s stunning and mesmerizing.”

With this wave of publicity, the head of the school’s admissions office couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

Jian Ye was truly a gem. Next semester’s scholarship would definitely go to him. Since the application period for this semester had already passed, the school opted for another way to show gratitude—making up for the participation grades (a component of the grading system) Jian Ye had lacked last semester.

Yun Chuan was accommodating in such matters. Given the traffic Jian Ye was bringing to the school, minor adjustments could be made as long as they didn’t violate principles.

Jian Ye had also proven to his teachers through his grades that he had worked hard this semester, fulfilling his earlier promise—not a single absence.

Departments that finished exams early had to stay on campus for another week until the official start of the vacation period.

It was during this week that a film crew suddenly arrived at the school, looking to cast some supporting and bit-part actors.

This was a BL (boy’s love) drama transitioning from campus life to society, titled *Farewell to Midsummer*, adapted from a popular youth campus romance novel by renowned web author Jiji.

Xiao Chun got wind of an inside scoop that Mo Huan had already auditioned in advance for the role of the young male lead, Lin Zhirun.

Thrilled, Xiao Chun tried to pull strings and spend money to secure the role of Luo Ying for himself.

Luo Ying was Lin Zhirun’s first love in the drama—a ray of sunshine who taught him how to love but died in an accident.

His appearances were limited to flashbacks in the first few episodes. Though his screen time was brief, he had a fanbase among readers who sympathized with his tragic fate.

Xiao Chun believed he was perfect for the role because Luo Ying was also a dance student in the story. The director would surely prefer someone who fit the character over an amateur.

Confident but cautious, Xiao Chun had a backup plan—he’d bribed a junior storyboard assistant director in the audition team, who promised that after a mere go through the motions, the role of Luo Ying would be his.

The thought of acting alongside Mo Huan, even as an on-screen couple, filled Xiao Chun with indescribable joy.

The frustrations of the past few days vanished instantly. He firmly believed that he who laughs last, laughs best.

...

The director of this drama, Wu Xiaozhi, had helmed several well-received TV series. He took casting seriously and personally came to Yun Chuan to judge the auditions.

Prior to this, he had already auditioned Mo Huan for the role of the young male lead. Speaking of Mo Huan, Wu Xiaozhi knew him—the elders of the Mo Family in Yunjing had some connections with him.

But when it came to casting, relationships meant nothing to him—only the actor’s suitability and ability mattered.

Once Mo Huan was confirmed, Wu Xiaozhi was pestered daily with calls and texts from him.

Mo Huan recommended the perfect candidate for Luo Ying—a freshman from their school’s dance department named Jian Ye.

Director Wu didn't pay much attention to Weibo, so he didn't know who Jian Ye was.

Mo Huan then sent Director Wu all the recent trending videos of Jian Ye, as well as his final exam performance videos.

Director Wu was curious about what made this person so special that Mo Huan would recommend him so enthusiastically.

So he clicked on the videos, and the moment he did, he was deeply captivated by the charmingly graceful young man on screen.

Jian Ye was a perfect match for the character of Luo Ying—both in appearance and skill.

The novel described Luo Ying as having limpid eyes, a radiant smile, and radiating purity and beauty while dancing, as if glowing with light.

Luo Ying was the one and only existence in Lin Zhirun's heart, an indelible pain that could never be erased.

Director Wu assumed that on audition day, this Jian Ye would definitely show up. But from morning until late afternoon, there was no sign of him.

In his mind, he had already mentally cast Jian Ye—he just needed to come in for a screen test. It didn’t matter if his acting was a bit raw; after all, Director Wu knew Jian Ye wasn’t from the Acting Department. For the role of Luo Ying, visual impact was crucial—the audience needed to instantly recognize the character from the book.

So he called Mo Huan and asked, "The person you worked so hard to recommend—why hasn’t he come? Don’t tell me… you were eager to push him, but he had no idea about your intentions?"

On the other end of the line, Mo Huan was silent in shame. He had messaged Jian Ye, but there was no reply. He even went to his dorm, only to find him absent.

Meanwhile, at Lanfeng Bay.

The young man sat in the gaming room all day, grinding ranked games with his roommate.

"Chi-ge, how did you whiff your ult again? The enemy almost backdoored our nexus just now," Jian Ye grumbled in frustration over voice chat.

**Author's Note:**

Director Wu: So anxious, so anxious!

Mo Huan: I want to ship with my junior so badly!!!

Xiao Chun: I want to stomp Jian Ye into the ground!

Jian Xiaogou: Report—I just wanna game! (That post-exam freedom mood jpg.)