Ji Shiyu parted his lips slightly, at a loss for words as Gu Ran lay sobbing against his leg.
Gu Ran didn’t dare move the side where she’d just gotten the injection, using her elbow to slowly push herself off Ji Shiyu’s lap before burying her face into the pillow.
She could only console herself by thinking that he’d touched even more intimate places before—this was nothing in comparison.
After a pause, Ji Shiyu finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Gu Ran ignored him.
Fresh from the injection and having just taken her medicine, she could no longer stay awake and soon fell into a deep sleep.
As she turned in her sleep, Ji Shiyu noticed the half-dried tear streaks on her face. He got up, dampened a towel with warm water in the bathroom, and gently wiped her cheeks and sweat-dampened forehead.
In her sleep, Gu Ran sniffled lightly, murmuring something under her breath.
“What is it? Are you thirsty?” Ji Shiyu’s voice softened as he leaned closer to listen.
Gu Ran began to sob again, this time like a child, her breaths hitching unevenly.
Her hand reached out as if searching for something, finally clutching tightly at Ji Shiyu’s sleeve.
“Don’t go,” she whimpered, tears rolling to the tip of her nose. “Dad.”
Hearing her words, Ji Shiyu froze for a moment before his heart clenched painfully. He gazed at her delicate profile.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, his chest aching as he stroked her slender back with his other hand, hoping to offer some comfort.
He remembered that day—barely an adult, Gu Ran had crouched outside the emergency room, wailing in despair.
She had grown since then, yet remained fragile, like a blade of grass once sheltered under a great tree, now forced to weather the storms alone.
His gaze darkened as he held her slightly damp palm, listening as her sobs gradually quieted, willing her to sleep peacefully.
The next morning, Gu Ran woke up rubbing her swollen eyes.
Her forehead still felt warm, but it was much better than the night before.
Her body felt lighter too, the only lingering pain from the injection site. She had enough strength now to move her limbs freely.
Slipping into her slippers, she shuffled out of the bedroom and spotted breakfast laid out on the dining table.
Next to it was a note.
From Ji Shiyu.
His handwriting was strikingly elegant, each stroke bold and precise. He wrote that he had to go to the office, that her fever had subsided when he checked earlier, and that she didn’t need to go to the hospital today—just remember to take her medicine after breakfast.
Gu Ran pursed her lips at the note, thinking how old-fashioned it was to leave a handwritten message. Then she remembered she’d blocked Ji Shiyu on WeChat—this was his only option.
With a quiet sigh, she sat down to eat.
As she nibbled on her food, she scrolled through her phone and saw Ding Ze’s message asking how she was feeling and if she’d recovered.
Glaring at the screen, Gu Ran sent back a "staring.jpg" emoji.
She had only told Ding Ze about her fever—there was no doubt he was the one who’d tipped off Ji Shiyu last night.
Traitor!
She should’ve seen it coming when he’d accidentally gushed about Ji Shiyu after being elected group leader. What a miscalculation.
Ding Ze: [awkward chuckle.jpg]
Knowing better than to provoke her, he quickly changed the subject: [How are you feeling? Are you streaming tonight?]
[You could take a break if you’re still sick, no one would mind.]
After finishing two steamed buns, Gu Ran felt her energy returning. Sipping her soy milk, she replied: [No break.]
[I’m streaming.]
She hadn’t gone live for three days due to the show recording—if she skipped today, it’d be four. The competition in the streaming world was fierce; what if her fans forgot about her?
Today, she would be a diligent, hardworking streamer as always.
She peeked at her fan group chat, "Ranran’s Fish Pond."
Her fans knew she’d been away for the show, and the chat was filled with candid photos taken by passersby during filming.
They were raving about how stunning she looked even in unedited shots, thanking the "clueless man" who’d let them discover the beauty of Gu Ran in the streaming world.
Blushing at their praise, Gu Ran chuckled to herself.
Another fan asked when her episode would air, excited to see her "step out of Cat’s Paw and into the world."
Gu Ran typed back: [In two weeks!]
The post-production for Stars on the Run usually took about ten days per episode.
Two weeks later, at 8 PM on Saturday, the episode featuring Cat’s Paw’s top female streamer premiered on the streaming platform.
Gu Ran didn’t even need to brainstorm a theme for her stream—naturally, she’d watch the show with her fans.
This was part of her contract: when her episode aired, she had to host a live watch party to promote it.
Stars on the Run was featured on the platform’s homepage. Before going live, Gu Ran bought a membership to skip the 90-second ads.
This was her first time seeing the final cut. She projected the show onto her stream’s main screen, reserving a small corner for her own live reaction as she chatted with fans.
When the three female guest stars made their entrance, her chat exploded with: [Ranran’s the prettiest!] [Her visuals are unbeatable—never lost once!]
Of course, every fan thought their favorite was the most beautiful. If Pei Yue or Sun Yuanni were streaming, their fans would say the same.
Gu Ran chimed in diplomatically, “Everyone’s gorgeous!”
She leaned forward slightly. “Sun Yuanni’s skin is flawless, and Pei Yue is even slimmer in person than in photos.”
The chat erupted in laughter—even beauties loved admiring other beauties.
Gu Ran happily watched the 100-minute episode with her fans.
Though she knew exactly what had happened during filming, the edited version still had her laughing uncontrollably at certain moments, her fans joining in the hilarity.
Despite their team’s lack of star power or physical prowess, the chemistry between the three streamers was magical, delivering most of the episode’s funniest moments.
The highlight was the wrestling segment, where Gu Ran—employing a "weakest vs. strongest" strategy—found herself pitifully outmatched against Han Xudong and Yan Zhun. The scene, enhanced with comical "wind-swept leaves" effects, showed her trembling like a helpless little rabbit, sending the chat into hysterics.
[HAHAHAHA is it bad that we’re laughing this hard as her fans??]
[I didn’t wanna laugh… unless I literally couldn’t help it.]
[Ranran’s a tactical genius—absolute galaxy brain move LOL.]
[GO RANRAN GO!]
Gu Ran covered her face in secondhand embarrassment as the footage showed her straining with all her might, only for Han Xudong to effortlessly push her down with two fingers.
Then came Yan Zhun—another crushing defeat, though the clip of him accidentally tripping made the final cut too.
Yan Zhun nearly toppled onto Gu Ran, and not only did the fans outside the venue scream, but the other regular cast members burst into laughter, cheering and clapping at the scene.
However, the two involved quickly stood up, awkwardly separating.
Gu Ran knew how obsessive some fans could be about shipping couples, so she nervously checked the live comments. Sure enough, someone had written:
["What should I do... I kinda wanna ship Ran Ran with this Yan guy..."]
But other fans immediately replied:
["Ship what?! Are you out of your mind, fake fan?! Have you all forgotten Wang Daxia by the Daming Lake?!"]
["This kind of handsome-guy-pretty-girl pairing is so cliché, we’re already sick of it."]
["Exactly! Our Cat Paw ‘Socially Awkward Duo’ is the real deal!"]
Gu Ran: "..."
At that moment, Wang Daxia, who was passionately gaming on his livestream, suddenly sneezed.
Gu Ran wrapped up today’s stream after watching the latest episode of Star Challenge with her fans.
She thought the show was pretty good.
There was no malicious editing or deliberate drama-stirring—even the scene where Yan Zhun accidentally tripped over her leg was left in.
Ding Ze texted her saying she had made it onto the trending list—this time not because the VP had bought the spot, but because she’d genuinely been searched up.
Gu Ran opened the trending chart and saw two hashtags related to her after the episode aired:
#GuRanIHaveABoldIdea
#GuRanDuLiLiuXiaolinComedyGold
Both were ranked high on the list.
She clicked into the hashtags and found compilations of her funniest moments from the variety show.
The comments were overwhelmingly positive:
["Oh, that’s the Cat Paw’s top beauty, right? Her real name’s Gu Ran?"]
["Hahaha, I’ve watched her streams—didn’t expect her to be this hilarious off-camera too!"]
["She totally holds her own next to Sun Yuanni (lowkey think she even outshines her)."]
["The variety show’s equivalent of a mudslide—I’m dying of laughter!"]
["That little expression of hers is so adorable! Cute and sassy, screenshotting it for my profile pic."]
["The third group with the female streamers was comedy gold!"]
["When Du Li got thrown into the air, I literally laughed my head off."]
...
Gu Ran smiled faintly at her own trending topics, feeling pleased.
All that effort—getting flung into the water seven times by the ejection seat and even catching a fever afterward—had paid off.
As it turned out, the initially least-anticipated group, the female streamers, had stolen the spotlight with Du Li’s comedic timing and Gu Ran’s bold ideas, delivering nonstop laughs and earning extra screen time in the edits.
Satisfied, Gu Ran went to bed after checking the trends.
But what she didn’t know was that even a supposedly lighthearted, peace-and-love variety show could spark an all-out fan war once the episode aired.
For casual viewers, Star Challenge was just a fun watch—laugh and move on. But for fans tuning in solely for their idols, the show existed only to showcase their favorites.
Among the three female guest stars in this episode, Sun Yuanni had no dedicated fanbase due to her industry connections, while Gu Ran’s fanbase was niche, centered around her streaming career. Only Pei Yue, who debuted from a survival show, had a fully structured fandom. From the moment the show’s official account announced the guest lineup, her fans had taken over the comments, subtly shading the "random online streamers" who dared to share equal billing with their "Yueyue."
Pei Yue’s fans watched the episode eagerly, especially pleased when she teamed up with Yan Zhun, one of the show’s resident heartthrobs. The moment Pei Yue’s hair got caught in Yan Zhun’s zipper during the first game, the comments exploded with "They look so good together!"—already envisioning a CP in the making.
But by the end of the episode, they realized that aside from that initial accident, Yan Zhun had kept a respectful distance from Pei Yue, sticking strictly to the tasks without any chemistry. The forced "CP vibes" paled in comparison to the accidental shipping frenzy sparked by Yan Zhun’s stumble with that streamer girl.
More critically, Pei Yue’s fans noticed one glaring issue:
Why did that "low-rent online streamer" get more screen time than their center-stage-debuting Yueyue?!
...
The next morning, Gu Ran was woken up by a call from Ding Ze.
After hearing him out, she sat up and checked Star Challenge’s official Weibo. The comments section had indeed been raided, flooded with nearly 50,000 angry messages.
Every single one demanded:
["The production team must provide a reasonable explanation IMMEDIATELY!!!"]
["Trash show pushing their golden child—disgusting, go die."]
Each comment came with a screenshot: a side-by-side comparison of the three female guests’ screen time.
Gu Ran: 23 minutes, 42 seconds.
Sun Yuanni: 23 minutes, 1 second.
Pei Yue: 20 minutes, 33 seconds.
Pei Yue’s fans had stayed up all night tallying the numbers. Discovering their idol had a full three minutes and nine seconds less than "that streamer," they collectively lost it and were now demanding justice under the show’s posts.
Gu Ran stared at the stats, baffled. "They actually counted this? They’re making a fuss over three minutes?"
Ding Ze scoffed. "Back when she was in a girl group, her fans would start wars over a one-second difference in line distribution. The forums were a warzone—no insult was off-limits."
"No comedic timing, yet they blame the editors for cutting her scenes. Maybe if their idol didn’t kill the vibe every time she appeared..."
Gu Ran was speechless at Pei Yue’s fans attacking the show over screen time. Reading the repetitive spam of "trash show pushing their golden child," she asked Ding Ze, "By the way, what does ‘golden child’ mean here? Who are they talking about?"
Ding Ze sighed. That was exactly why he’d called her so early.
He answered: "You."
Gu Ran: "…?"
Before she could process it, Ding Ze sent her a link to a gossip forum thread.
It was packed with "research reports" Pei Yue’s fans had compiled overnight—complete with screenshots—detailing how, since becoming Cat Paw’s top streamer, Gu Ran had been relentlessly promoted: ads, bought hashtags, and now a coveted spot on Star Challenge, a show many actresses couldn’t even get into. They accused Cat Paw of conspiring with the production to pair her with Du Li, the show’s funniest regular, and then giving her excessive screen time in the final edit.
The top replies included:
["Damn, after reading this, she really is the golden child."]
["The favoritism is blatant."]
["They’re throwing every resource at her, impressive."]
["Forced popularity always backfires—just wait for the karma."]
["Ugh, golden children ruin everything. First survival shows, now streaming? Disgusting."]
["Cat Paw’s pouring everything into her. Not just their ‘top beauty’—more like their ‘top nepo baby.’"]
Pei Yue’s fans, seeing the agreement, sneered and proceeded to spam every forum with Gu Ran’s new, sarcastic nickname:
"Cat Paw Princess."
