A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 1 : “Side Character Correction Specialist, Chu Zu.”

I, Chu Zu, opened my eyes, and before me knelt a young man covered in wounds.

The room I was in wasn’t large, barely 10 square meters, with no windows, only a rusty iron door.

The sole source of light was a dim chandelier overhead.

I felt a sour, aching pain in my palm.

Looking down, I saw several cuts on my hand, the wounds caused by the coarse, inferior hemp rope I gripped, as thick as a bowl’s rim.

A cold, harsh male voice suddenly rang in my ear.

“Chu Zu, you’ve already wasted three days.”

“I only want to know that set of codes. You’ve questioned him for three days and still haven’t gotten a single number?”

“No need for me to remind you—you should know the fate of useless things.”

“Get the codes. This is my last warning.”

With a “click” of electrical static, the man’s voice cut off abruptly.

I raised my hand to touch my ear.

The metal ring was fully embedded in the ear bone, impossible to remove.

Forcing it out would only tear my ear off completely—a typical one-way communication device.

The young man enduring torture but refusing to speak, the man coldly issuing orders through the communicator, and me, caught between them—these key elements were enough for me to piece together the current plot point.

As if to confirm my guess, the next second, a mechanical voice echoed directly in the depths of my mind.

“Target novel ‘Neon Crown’ transmission complete.”

“To save time, plot introduction will be presented in a combination of text and visuals. Host, please prepare.”

“Loading original plot…”

From the warning to prepare to the start of loading, there was no time given for me to react.

I was a complete novice, unfamiliar with the loading process.

In the blink of an eye, a flood of text and images exploded in my mind.

‘Neon Crown’ was a cyberpunk story about a male protagonist’s rise to power.

The protagonist, Tang Qi, grew up in the lower districts, orphaned, with no parents.

A chance encounter allowed him to board a train to the upper district.

On the train, Tang Qi discovered an upper-district resident, dressed lavishly, who looked exactly like him.

Before he could process his shock, the train derailed, exploded, and flames spread, burning half the lower district’s slums.

When he woke again, he had become the heir of the Tang family in the upper district, the sole survivor of the train accident, now named “Tang Qi.”

From that day, his life changed dramatically.

The Tang family controlled most of the upper district’s biotech patents.

Anything related to cyborgs or gene editing inevitably involved the Tang family.

The rest of the story followed the typical arc of a coming-of-age tale.

Tang Qi found himself in a dazzling, chaotic world, resolved to join the lower district’s rebellion, and after several battles against upper-district capital, he triumphed, becoming the undisputed king of both worlds.

And my first role as a novice was as a loyal lackey… of the backbone of the capital’s forces.

“Target novel ‘Neon Crown’ plot loading complete.”

The system’s mechanical voice continued relentlessly, without pause, cutting into my mind.

Selected reader comments extracted for you:

“‘I don’t get the point of Chu Zu’s existence. You can make the villain dumb, but don’t assume readers are dumb too. Is that so hard to understand?’

“‘The villain wants the codes, but this guy just goes straight for killing Tang-ge, without even asking anything. He doesn’t advance the plot at all, then suddenly turns good and helps Tang-ge take down the villain?’

“And that’s not even the worst part. The villain’s dead, Tang-ge’s cleaning up the loose ends, and then Chu Zu suddenly jumps out, leading all the capital’s remaining forces, saying he wants revenge for the villain? Bro, you’re the one who betrayed him!’

“‘I’m done. At the end, I had to flip back 200 chapters just to find this Chu Zu guy in some random corner. Is the author brain-dead? Who is he? Worthy of being the final boss?’.”

…

The flood of information took me a while to process, followed by the system’s broadcast of reader comments.

The gap was too long, and the system began looping an annoying “beep-beep” warning in my head.

“Do you know who I am?” I said to the system in my mind.

The system, sounding nervous, worried about cognitive dissonance, emphasized: “Side Character Correction Specialist, Chu Zu.”

I said: “I’m a workplace newbie.”

System: “…”

I continued: “The downside is I lack experience. The upside is I learn and adapt quickly. And I’m very team-oriented, so could you stop playing creepy sound effects while I’m buffering? I don’t want to ruin our team spirit.”

The system was silent for a moment: “Received.”

As a Side Character Correction Specialist, I was indeed a workplace newbie.

About six months ago, I, a novelist, died suddenly from overwork while rushing a deadline.

Before I could say a word, I was handed an offer.

The “Side Character Correction System,” as the name implied, aimed to revise Side characters in novels that readers despised.

The specialist’s task was both simple and difficult.

Specialists needed to revise or refine the Side character’s settings, act out the entire story, ensure their existence became reasonable and acceptable to readers, and thus complete the novel’s integrity.

The system said most who took this job were authors or editors.

But performance records were generally poor.

Most either buckled under pressure, made serious mistakes and were punished, or quit voluntarily.

The system also said it deeply respected human rights and would never force employees to do what they didn’t want.

Upon joining, you were immediately permanent, with no probation period, and all benefits were top-tier.

After submitting a resignation, there was no three-month handover—just instant release.

Considering I was approached after dying suddenly, for me, “instant release” meant literal death, no strings attached.

I took it in stride.

I was in this line of work anyway—when writing, I’d visualize entire plots with vivid scenes in my mind.

Dead was dead, so I’d just do the job.

The only challenge was my acting skills.

Even if I could grit my teeth and perform on the spot, no one could predict how it’d turn out.

So, for the six months after accepting the job, I took acting classes in the system’s training room.

Six months wasn’t enough to hone Oscar-worthy skills.

I had planned to train another half-year to solidify my skills, but the system couldn’t wait.

“If you don’t step in, another poor author will be driven insane by reader backlash. Why not check out the situation first, and we can discuss further?”

I looked at my current situation and sighed lightly: “Don’t pull this scam next time. Is this the level of ‘discuss further’?”

The system, lacking confidence, admitted fault: “…Received.”

The mechanical voice added, human-like: “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”

I sighed again.

The villain, fuming, called to push for progress.

The protagonist, Tang Qi, was forced to kneel before me.

Per the original plot, Tang Qi would be rescued by his allies in half an hour, and I’d face the villain’s full wrath.

Then I’d betray the villain, leaking their info to Tang Qi, leading to the villain’s death.

And then I’d go on about loyalty and revenge, rushing to die before Tang Qi.

In my eyes, the author of ‘Neon Crown’ never intended to develop “Chu Zu.”

When the villain needed a thug, they pulled me out.

How I treated the protagonist led to the villain doubling down on me for my failures.

If the author had bothered to add a bit more depth—some reluctance in my dialogue, or anything to give me presence—my reputation wouldn’t be this bad.

Keywords: ruthless, traitor, sanctimonious.

All the elements were there, but sparse, lacking sufficient motive.

I did a ton to drive the plot, but the more I did, the dumber it seemed.

To fix the character… Where to start?

“Start with Tang Qi…” I said. “Readers think the sidekick’s an idiot largely because the protagonist thinks so too.”

I wasn’t familiar with the job.

“Besides not altering key plot points, any other precautions?”

System: “Key plot lines cannot be changed. When you must deliver scripted lines, I’ll highlight them in red for you, so don’t worry. Also, you can only modify ‘Chu Zu’s’ settings. You cannot directly change how other characters view or interact with you.”

“Got it.”

I said, gripping the hemp rope tightly despite the pain.

This body wasn’t mine.

Raising the heavy rope felt effortless, and I could faintly see smooth muscle outlines under the shirt.

What a contrast to my frail, overworked body before I died.

No wonder they say a strong body is everything—it even made whipping someone effortless.

With a few muffled thuds, fresh blood seeped from Tang Qi’s shoulders, face, and waist.

He still didn’t make a sound, raising his head, his gaze locked fiercely on my expressionless face.

“Does it hurt?”

I asked.

Tang Qi let out a cold laugh, his face pale, but his eyes brighter.

I whipped him again, asking coldly: “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Tang Qi spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

“What are you thinking…” the system said, confused.

I said: “He didn’t spit in my face. The protagonist’s got some class.”

System: “…”

System: “Not that! Aren’t you supposed to fix Tang Qi’s view of ‘Chu Zu’ as an idiot? Why are you sticking to the original plot, not doing anything productive, and going full crazy?”

I was silent for a moment: “Your wording’s pretty harsh.”

“I borrowed it from the comment section,” the system said, a bit embarrassed.

My interruption made the system forget to press further.

Amid our sporadic chat, I’d been whipping and questioning Tang Qi for a full half-hour.

By my calculations, it was time for Tang Qi to be rescued.

The door was “blasted” open in true cyberpunk fashion.

I first heard a deafening boom, the whole room shaking.

Dust fell from the swaying chandelier, its light flickering across the walls.

A grappling hook shot from the door toward me.

This body instinctively dodged with minimal movement, but I forced myself to suppress the reflex, raising my hand to block instead.

Searing pain.

The rusty hook pierced straight through my palm.

Six months of acting training paid off—I kept my face blank, not even a twitch in my brow.

The system notified me instantly: “Tang Qi has been rescued!”

I glanced over, but “Tang Qi” was still there.

I didn’t tend to my hand, silently walking to where “Tang Qi” was—and passed right through.

Just like the still-closed iron door, what remained was only “Tang Qi’s” projection.

I found a button-sized projection device by the door and crushed it between two fingers.

The door instantly appeared wide open.

The cell was underground, so even with the door open, there was no breeze.

Because of this, the original “Chu Zu” wouldn’t have noticed anything until continuing the “interrogation.”

I didn’t care, looking at my hands: “Alright, let Tang Qi figure it out himself.

Next, I meet the boss. I need to tweak my character before that.”

Tang Qi was pondering.

After being rescued, his allies covered his escape onto a train to the lower district.

Since the train incident years ago, security from the lower to upper districts had tightened, but going downward was easy.

If I had reacted slower, there’d be no checkpoints, smooth sailing all the way.

His allies were either watching for possible sweeps or looking at his wounds with concern.

The wounds weren’t severe.

My method… was precise.

No fatal injuries, but every hit targeted pain points—a standard interrogation technique.

“What did that Chu guy ask you?” an ally asked with concern.

Outside the train, neon lights faded into the horizon.

They were descending, heading to a chaotic place unworthy of even a night sky.

Tang Qi watched the prosperity grow distant until only cheap, dim lamps remained in his view.

The light in his eyes still burned, flickering with his confusion.

“He asked me…” Tang Qi said hoarsely, “Does it hurt?”

His ally froze, frowning and spitting: “That Chu guy’s a rabid dog who doesn’t care about his life.

His whole palm was pierced, and he still looked like that… maybe his whole body’s modded?”

No.

Having studied human augmentation for years, Tang Qi was certain I was 100% “original human.”

The boss wanted something, but I never mentioned it, only repeatedly asked if it hurt?

Recalling the moment of rescue, I had shown no reaction.

My gaze lingered on my hand for just a moment, confirming the injury, then moved to the projection.

Tang Qi was sure I’d notice the ruse immediately.

Given their style, they should’ve already met resistance.

But everything was going impossibly smoothly.

Why?