Perfect, absolutely perfect.

As the weather warmed, the atmosphere at First High School grew increasingly tense. At such a time, Chen Ruowen’s consistently relaxed attitude toward her studies seemed more and more out of place against the school’s prevailing tone.

Yet, this time, not a single person stepped forward or whispered behind her back to criticize her. For in mid-March, Southern University published the final list of winter camp admissions and supplementary acceptances on its official website—and Chen Ruowen’s name was at the very top.

Soon after, several videos showcasing outstanding students from the winter camp were released. The clip of Chen Ruowen playing the piano garnered over one hundred million views on its very first day, the sudden surge in traffic even crashing Southern University’s official site.

Following this, the video was frantically reposted across all major social platforms. Without lifting a finger, Chen Ruowen found herself with a million new followers. An organization named “Chen Ruowen National Fan Support Club” had quietly been established.

With this newfound fame came a growing number of people eager to slip into First High School, into Class Three of the senior year, just to catch a glimpse of her in person. In the small group chat from the winter camp, Wu Jie and Xiao Gao would share daily screenshots of their friends’ discussions about Chen Ruowen. Even Gao Tang messaged her, claiming, “My mom wants an autographed photo.”

For the safety of these fervent fans—yes, for the fans’ safety—Principal Xiong earnestly requested that Chen Ruowen begin her holiday early and spend some time at home.

To ensure she wouldn’t refuse, Principal Xiong even enlisted Bai Jinyan—the only person who could persuade her—to help make his case.

A dignified principal, resorting to pleading with a student just to grant her a vacation—how exasperating.

With nothing to do during her forced holiday, Chen Ruowen found her only amusement in teasing her own gentle little bookworm at home. Under her tireless guidance, Guo Jingyuan, once so timid, had become just a little braver than before—a mischievous act that turned out for the best.

Meanwhile, after months of preparation and training, the three main crews of “No NG Tonight” finally began shooting in earnest. With nothing better to do, Chen Ruowen picked a beautiful, sunny day, dressed in casual clothes, and went incognito to the Twin Star Film Base.

As the largest entertainment company in Huaguo, Twin Star boasted a wholly-owned film base with every conceivable set and scene. Except for a few projects with extraordinary location requirements or special filming needs, there was no need to shoot elsewhere or compete with unrelated crews for space.

Even internal scheduling conflicts were rare, for when a crew filed its filming schedule, the director’s plans were reported to Twin Star’s administrative department, which assigned filming zones according to crew timetables and set requirements.

Every day, the “Studio Management System” app listed which scenes were being shot by which crews and where. Should emergencies arise, directors could use their accounts to check for available sets and apply to book them.

Because of the film base, most actors and crew could remain in Nancheng, sparing them long separations from home or extended business trips. Family ties remained intact.

Moreover, with actors and directors from the same company constantly crossing paths, the messy unspoken rules and “crew couples” common elsewhere were rarer here, giving actors a much greater chance to shine.

Under such a system, Twin Star’s working environment was vastly simpler than other film companies. There was never a shortage of opportunities or resources; all you had to do was devote yourself to your role, and what you sought would inevitably come to you.

Thus, actors from outside, film school students, and even directors and planners scrambled to join Twin Star, while brand sponsors, when choosing ambassadors, prioritized Twin Star’s actors. A pure environment meant less chance of scandal, and reduced risk for brands.

This virtuous cycle cemented Twin Star’s dominance.

With the location schedule Assistant Pan had printed for her, Chen Ruowen, carrying no bag, wore only a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses to hide her face. Using Assistant Pan’s staff card, she entered the studio base.

The first set she passed was filming a modern drama. In a makeshift apartment, the male and female leads leaned on the balcony, chatting and gesturing toward an empty window, pretending to gaze down from the top of a high-rise and envision the future.

Next door, a middle-aged actor in his forties, barefoot, chased a mischievous child around, enacting a lively family melodrama.

The front half of the base was devoted to modern settings, the middle to recent historical ones, and the largest, most elaborate section at the back housed ancient sets.

In recent years, period romances and fantasy dramas had become wildly popular, so these genres gradually dominated the market. A few years ago, Twin Star even converted some declining “national” sets for use in historical dramas.

Chen Ruowen passed through several costume drama sets before reaching the set of “Imperial Harem of the Great Qing.” She found a spot with a good view to observe.

Today’s scene depicted the initial meeting between the heroine, Borjigit Yilan, and Dong’e Yunxi at the selection ceremony—a pivotal moment early in the story. Chen Ruowen had come especially to see how the thirty-year-old Xu Xiangwei would capture the innocence and charm of a seventeen-year-old girl.

“Alas, Xu Ke is too plain, Ning Xia far too sweet, Zhang Zixuan’s acting is dreadful, and Xu Xiangwei is simply too old… In such a big company, is there really not a single suitable actress to be found?”

A disheveled man with a mess of hair and heavy dark circles wandered from set to set, clutching a rough sketch in his hand. Seeing the costumes of the “Imperial Harem of the Great Qing” cast, his last hope faded, and he shook his head in disappointment.

“To be devastatingly beautiful yet ruthlessly decisive, with a woman’s allure and a man’s heroic spirit, and a hint of ethereal grace—that’s the character from the novel!” Cheng Sheng stared at his sketch and sighed. “Where can I possibly find such a person?”

He crumpled the drawing, about to toss it aside, when he happened to glance up and saw a woman standing by the carved railing.

Her back was straight, her very pose exuding an undeniable presence, even as she stood casually off to the side. Her chin was slightly lifted, her fair skin and the perfect curve of her jawline a testament to her beauty.

Then she smiled, removed her sunglasses, and revealed her full face.

Cheng Sheng hastily smoothed out the crumpled paper and compared it again and again, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

Perfect—she was perfect!

No one else could play this role but her!