A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 31: “Eighteen-Year-Old Jiang Zu Wanted to Be Smart.”

Jiang Zu was a wild child raised in an orphanage.

From a young age, the words he heard most were: Do you know how much money we owe to birth and raise you?

You ruined our family.

After his drunken father spoke, his mother began to cry.

No one cared for Jiang Zu, shrinking in a filthy corner.

He moved often, sleeping well only right after a move, before debt collectors found them.

Sometimes, when his parents weren’t home, the iron door was pounded loudly, more terrifying than the worst thunder Jiang Zu ever heard.

At first, he cried.

Then he learned crying made the knocking scarier, so he stopped, clamping his mouth shut, curling up with his head in his arms.

Hiding was enough.

Hide, and the people outside would leave.

Then his parents would come back.

At nine, his parents said they’d take him to an amusement park.

Early in the morning, just as dawn broke, they hoisted him over a nearly two-and-a-half-meter wall.

Little Jiang Zu had never been to an amusement park.

His parents always said they couldn’t afford it.

Today, they finally brought him.

So even though he bumped his head, felt dizzy, and scraped his knee, he was still thrilled.

He climbed up from the ground, hid in the bushes under the wall, tilted his little head, and waited for his parents to climb over.

He waited until nightfall, until an amusement park worker with a flashlight found him half-asleep and asked where his parents were.

Jiang Zu looked at the wall, but heard the worker’s gasp.

The boy’s black hair was soaked, his neck covered in blood, nearly dried.

The worker, too rushed to think, sent him to the hospital.

The doctor said a mild brain contusion, untreated for a whole day, meant that while his life was saved, his intelligence would be affected.

Jiang Zu asked, Will I become dumb?

The doctor kindly patted his shoulder: No, you’ll just learn a bit slower.

Jiang Zu was relieved.

Only when sent to the orphanage did he realize.

Because of him, his parents owed too much money, so they abandoned him.

In his first month at the orphanage, little Jiang Zu was ostracized—he had a rare iris coloboma.

Typically, a patient’s iris isn’t round but irregularly shaped.

Commonly, there’s a “notch” or “keyhole” below the pupil, making it look different.

Jiang Zu’s coloboma was central, with pointed defects at both ends of his pupil, resembling an animal’s vertical slit.

Due to the partial iris loss, more light entered his eyes, reflecting off the retina’s back—his pupils glowed red from blood vessels.

The orphanage kids saw his eyes and were initially scared, calling him a monster behind his back.

Over time, they realized Jiang Zu was just a near-sighted fool.

The kids mocked him to his face, calling him an idiot, saying he was dumb.

Blushing, he retorted, No, I just learn slower.

They laughed harder, pointing at his bandaged head: Isn’t that being dumb?

Your parents ditched you because you’re dumb.

“It’s not dumb! The doctor said it’s not dumb, so it’s not. Are you smarter than a doctor?”

“Then it’s your eyes. They’re hideous.”

Jiang Zu had no comeback. He remembered his parents saying they spent a lot on his eyes.

Spent a lot, went into debt, and abandoned him.

Big tears rolled down his face.

The kids grew bolder, calling him dumb one moment, red-eyed freak the next.

Until the orphanage director heard and scolded them, they quieted down sulkily.

The director said, “Our A-Zu has beautiful eyes and isn’t dumb. Don’t cry, A-Zu, don’t cry.”

To a kid, being dumb didn’t matter much, nor was it noticeable.

But when Jiang Zu recovered, funded by an orphanage angel investor to attend school, the gap widened.

Normal kids started elementary school at six, but Jiang Zu had never been to school.

As a third-grade transfer, he couldn’t keep up with peers.

Not just academics—his decision-making, adaptability, and social skills lagged.

Over time, classmates stopped playing with him.

The homeroom teacher tactfully suggested to the director if Jiang Zu should transfer to a “special needs school.”

Maybe he’d thrive in a tailored environment.

The director valued the kids’ dignity and talked seriously with little Jiang Zu about transferring.

He fidgeted, never sharing his thoughts with his parents, yet still abandoned at the park despite his caution.

Now, he dared not say he didn’t want to, too young to hide his feelings.

The boy’s delicate, thin face twisted, eyes dodging, mumbling without speaking.

Jiang Zu always remembered the doctor’s comfort: not dumb, just slower.

If he was slow, he’d study more.

If others memorized the multiplication table in a week, he could too.

He just needed more time—while eating, in the bathroom, before bed.

With enough effort, he’d catch up.

Orphanage kids hated dummies.

Schoolmates ignored them.

Teachers wanted him transferred.

Jiang Zu didn’t know where else to go.

Nowhere seemed to accept dummies.

He didn’t want to be dumb.

The director saw his resistance and didn’t push, gently saying, “Look at me, A-Zu, be good, look at me.”

“You can say what you think. If you don’t, we won’t understand and might misunderstand. That’s bad, right?”

Jiang Zu whispered, “I… I don’t want to transfer.”

The director patted his head, eyes crinkling kindly: “Okay, we won’t transfer.”

From then on, Jiang Zu remembered.

Say what you feel.

When mocked and ostracized again, he clenched his small fists, stammering, “I-I don’t like this! Why can’t you like me a little? I-I like you all a lot.”

The slit-pupiled boy gritted his teeth, heart racing, forcing himself not to look away.

The kid he stared at froze, mouth open, childish taunts stopping abruptly.

Jiang Zu felt a spark of joy, thinking the director was right.

But the kids, after glancing at each other, pushed back and retreated.

He overheard their whispers.

“Did you see his eyes?”

“So gross.”

“Isn’t he embarrassed?”

“Don’t say it, I’m kinda scared.”

“…”

The kids scattered, leaving Jiang Zu standing alone, limbs cold.

No one bullied him, but he still felt he’d done something wrong.

He couldn’t figure it out.

As little Jiang Zu was about to be drowned in confusion and guilt, a voice came from behind.

“What are those brats bullying again!”

Turning, he saw two kids his age approaching, a boy and a girl.

“Same orphanage, yet they form cliques. No wonder they’re looked down on outside!”

The boy, seeing Jiang Zu’s eyes, paused, then grinned widely.

“Your eyes are so cool! You’re Jiang Zu, right? The director told me to look out for you.”

The girl was quieter, head down, long bangs hiding half her face.

She pulled a cheap, clear candy from her small bag, offering it in her palm to Jiang Zu.

From the director, Jiang Zu learned the boy was Lu Lin, the girl was Sang Zhe.

Their old orphanage in the next district shut down, so they’d live here now.

Jiang Zu was overjoyed.

Lu Lin was nothing like the other kids.

He was strong, glaring at gossipers. In the cafeteria, when someone called Sang Zhe a mute, Lu Lin stormed over, knocked the kid down, and made him apologize.

Lu Lin was popular at school, not in Jiang Zu’s class, handsome, and top-performing.

After school, kids always walked with him.

At the corner fork, Lu Lin waved goodbye to classmates, then elbowed Jiang Zu, who’d been trailing quietly, to his side.

“Why hide? Come on, let’s go home together.”

Okay okay okay okay okay.

Jiang Zu’s heart sang.

He didn’t know why, but it was good.

The director noticed little Jiang Zu was brighter lately, asking if something happy happened.

He spilled everything.

Her smile warmed at his joy: “You’ve got friends your age, A-Zu.”

Jiang Zu’s eyes sparkled, lips not yet curved, his thin face already brimming with happiness.

“Sang Zhe’s great too! She goes to a different school, is shy, doesn’t talk to me, but she’s super nice! Last weekend, she gave me a whole jar of little stars!”

“Because you’re all good kids,” the director said.

*

“Hold on.”

Chu Zu’s face was blank.

“Didn’t you promise no more scams?”

Half an hour ago.

The moment the System signaled transmission complete, Chu Zu felt intense discomfort unlike last time.

Like seasickness mixed with carsickness, his stomach churned.

His vision blurred in the chair, unsteady.

He had the System guide him, stumbling to the bathroom, clutching the toilet, retching violently.

Nothing came up but acid; his stomach was empty.

When he couldn’t vomit anymore, he realized… he still couldn’t see clearly.

“There’s glasses on the living room table. Watch the doorframe!” the System warned.

Chu Zu fumbled to the living room, tripping over mosaic clutter, nearly falling.

Grabbing the glasses, he ignored the surroundings, returned to the simple bathroom, and rinsed at the sink.

Finally cleaned up, Chu Zu put on the glasses and looked up.

The mirror showed a scruffy youth, black hair uneven like dog bites, one side longer with strands of white covering it.

The thick lenses hid his eyes; only up close could you see the red pupils.

Pointed, like animal slits, more obvious when moving.

In Chu Zu’s own words: quite non-mainstream.

Given the host’s weaker body compared to Neon Crown, the System didn’t load the full plot, fearing it’d overwhelm him.

After Chu Zu settled, it began narrating the commission orally.

Stopped halfway by Chu Zu.

The System hadn’t finished when Chu Zu’s “scam” accusation made it shuffle its chick feet guiltily.

Chu Zu wasn’t buying it: “Stand straight.”

The System snapped to attention, apologizing quickly: “Sorry!”

“Where’s the entertainment industry? Where’s the acting class? All I hear is a pitiful kid giggling like an idiot.”

“It’s the character's backstory…”

The System tried to explain.

“The author specifically requested you, so it's a high priority. They asked us to show you the full backstory before the main plot to help with revisions.”

“No need,” Chu Zu said.

“This kid’s miserable and naive, with a detailed backstory. As long as he doesn’t kill or do vile stuff, he won’t sink to a reader-hated side character.”

System: “…”

System: “That’s the problem. The author doesn’t get why…”

“Per the author, she wanted a traumatized but optimistic male second lead, but she doesn’t understand why so many hate ‘Jiang Zu.’”

“Many readers suggested cutting the simp male second to not disrupt the main couple’s romance. He feels out of place in a romance novel.”

“Hold on again.”

Chu Zu’s second pause.

He was silent for a long time, his gaze through thick lenses scanning the youth’s face in the mirror.

“Romance novels simp male second? Specifically requested of me?”

“You’re not just scamming hosts, but customers too?”

The System shook its head like a rattle: “No, no.”

“Neon Crown broke out big. The author said she was amazed by the mango flood… I mean, she admired your nuanced character crafting! Making even bad deeds charismatic. This time, ‘Jiang Zu’ does no wrong, so it should be easier—she said.”

“First, I’ve never written romance, never even read it. I’m not in that lane.”

“Second, an ambitious villain doing a few good deeds improves their rep. A cheerful simp slightly exceeding reader expectations thanks to it. They’re not the same difficulty.”

“Lastly…”

Chu Zu seemed to choose his words.

The System waited eagerly, only to hear an uncertain.

“Is romance still about car crashes, amnesia, and leukemia?”

“I’m not familiar, just heard… Why does it feel riskier than cyberpunk?”

System: “…”

System: “As far as I know… that trope’s outdated, like twenty years ago. Crashes, amnesia, leukemia—that’s for main leads, not the second male.”

Chu Zu visibly relaxed.

The System now believed he’d never written or read romance.

But him asking was a good sign—he didn’t outright refuse.

The System pressed its advantage.

“There’s an entertainment industry. Silent Peach and Plum’s first tag is ‘entertainment circle.’ Jiang Zu was scouted in senior year, skipped college entrance exams, and entered the industry. Outside the main couple’s scenes, he’s mostly working!”

Unsure if this counted as a scam, the System sensed Chu Zu thought this was a plot-driven entertainment novel.

A nobody rising to the industry’s top, with the host making the side character likable, maybe taking acting classes.

Hence his eagerness to jump in.

But no, it was a romance novel.

Even insisting it’s entertainment-focused, the key events Chu Zu faced revolved around… romance, which he knew nothing about.

“How about… I finished the backstory?”

Chu Zu focused, nodding at the System’s uneasy tone: “No, load the plot. Let me see what’s going on.”

*

Silent Peach and Plum, an entertainment circle urban romance novel.

Female lead Sang Zhe, abandoned by her parents due to a speech disorder.

She understood language but couldn’t control her mouth, tongue, or throat muscles, making clear speech impossible.

The little girl found her strained voice ugly, so she stopped speaking.

The orphanage was a repurposed abandoned church with an out-of-tune piano.

Volunteers occasionally played for the kids.

The off-key notes weren’t pleasant, but the volunteers played earnestly.

Sang Zhe discovered instruments could express her inner voice.

She fell in love with the piano, showing remarkable musical talent.

She practiced diligently at a special school, was spotted in a competition, and adopted at the “old” age of 16 by a childless musical family, starting her pianist career.

Male lead Lu Chulin, originally Lu Lin, renamed after college, was from the same orphanage.

Strikingly handsome, scouted in college, he began his entertainment career.

Gifted in acting, at 21, backed by a renowned director, he won the Huaying Gold Award for Best Actor, becoming the youngest domestic film emperor.

But fate was cruel.

After smooth years, an old illness relapsed, damaging his auditory nerves.

For a long time, he heard nothing, forced to pause acting and recover.

The story unfolds during Lu Chulin’s recovery.

He and Sang Zhe met on a trip, love at first sight.

Neither recognized their childhood playmate.

One silent, one deaf, they spent a romantic day quietly.

Lu Chulin even changed flights to return to their “hometown” with Sang Zhe.

Jiang Zu appeared after they landed.

…

“What’s he doing, playing third wheel?”

Chu Zu mulled it over, puzzled.

“Aren’t they a perfect match? What’s it called, deep calf love?”

System: “Mutual redemption…”

“That’s what I meant,” Chu Zu said.

“They’re both tragic, pretty inspiring. Can’t it just go like this? Love at first sight, confession, marriage. Work on their careers, have a post-marriage romance.”

Oh no, oh no.

The System panicked.

This was textbook plot-driven style.

No romance novel starts with the leads confessing, marrying, and working!

And the host was the male second! In a romance novel! Meant to vie with the male lead!

Unversed in writing, the System pulled the author’s communication records, reading the outline.

“Lu Chulin lost contact with the orphanage after going to college out of town.

Sang Zhe stayed local, and even after adoption, you two stayed close.

Her parents were very kind to you.”

“They tour globally, and since she’s introverted and struggles to communicate, they ask you to look after her when away.”

“You picked her up at the airport after her trip, acting as her spokesperson as usual, checking on her, thanking Lu Chulin.”

“You said a lot. Lu Chulin couldn’t hear but saw her trust in you, feeling uneasy.”

“Later, his condition improved with a hearing aid. He didn’t return to acting, transitioning to behind-the-scenes. Talented in everything, his career soared.”

“He kept in touch with Sang Zhe, gradually realizing her silence wasn’t just shyness. To protect her dignity, he didn’t call it out.”

“But you kept appearing between them. The more you cared for her, the more awkward it got for both, their conflicts surfacing due to her fragile secret.”

“Later, your entertainment career tanked, emotions erupted, and you blurted out she’s a mute in front of them.”

“Lu Chulin was furious, thinking you humiliated her, and argued with you. Sang Zhe realized he knew, her dignity shattered.”

“After, with no secrets, they were more open, discovering they were childhood playmates—not fated lovers, but childhood sweethearts.”

Finished, seeing Chu Zu’s lack of reaction, the System gritted its teeth and shared reader feedback.

Excerpted reader comments:

“‘His tragic setup isn’t why Jiang Zu’s annoying, FYI.’

“‘No way, the author thinks this counts as beautiful-strong-tragic? Which part fits? I’m not that picky.’’

‘‘What’s the point of this gross simp in a redemption story? Tripping them up because he can’t have her? Do Sang and Lu need more misery?’’

“‘Be human. The blurb called the male second a sunny golden retriever, tricked me in for a kill. Stop with the dog trope. You say he’s a cute pup 500 times, but I only see a simp, the kind that doesn’t even bark. Dumb, clingy, rolling in crap.’”

…

Chu Zu listened, thought deeply: “I get it.”

The System feared a stereotypical single straight guy remark.

“I’m a tool… a tool dog.”

Even without romance knowledge, Chu Zu said firmly, “When they need conflict, they drag me out for a spin. They heat up their romance, I get the hate.”

System, unsure but agreeing: “…Seems like it?”

Chu Zu sighed: “Turns out, you got scammed by the author.”

System: “?”

“She can’t not know why I’m hated. Readers don’t see the backstory. From the main plot, their curses are mild.”

“The more they want the couple to thrive, the more they hate me, enough to make the male second a side character.”

“The author wants me to take the hate while making her carefully designed male second popular… What’s that called?”

System: “…What?”

“Greed,” Chu Zu said coldly.

The system hesitated: “Since Silent Peach and Plum is negotiating film rights, the author’s offering high pay.”

“Besides our fixed evaluation credits, she’s giving a royalty share and your byline…”

Chu Zu switched gears: “That’s called relentless pursuit of excellence. I’ll be dedicated, do every job well, and achieve a win-win.”

System: “…”

“It’s just being a simp, right? If simping for the female lead isn’t enough, I’ll simp for the male lead. If that’s not enough, I’ll simp for everyone.”

“Not quite…”

System struggled, “Your last job was an earth-shattering villain. This shift scares me.”

Chu Zu was unfazed: “No big deal. In this line, keep your mind steady. Life’s ups and downs, mostly downs.”

“But this isn’t what a male second does… You’re supposed to compete with the male lead…”

Chu Zu: “There’s competition. We’re in the same industry, same age, both guys—rivalry right there.”

System: “…”

It’s about competing for the female lead, not careers! Stop obsessing over ambition!!!

Ignoring the System’s turmoil, Chu Zu analyzed his character’s traits.

Abandoned, aware of his flaws, he clung to kindness, fearing abandonment.

His intelligence limited his maturity, but he wasn’t clueless.

He knew basic social rules.

Talkative, low emotional intelligence, unlike adults who spoke subtly, he couldn’t read or express complex meanings.

His tolerance was low, emotional, childish.

The more childish and blunt, the more hurtful, unaware in the moment.

Chu Zu had a rough plan, washed his face again, and left the bathroom.

The apartment was one bedroom, one living room, one bathroom, small, simply furnished.

Due to Jiang Zu’s light sensitivity, curtains were drawn, only dim sunlight hitting the floor.

The living room had a wooden table with chairs, an old five-drawer dresser by the wall, a two-step walk to an open gas stove, and a small floor fridge.

Chu Zu opened the dresser, finding glass jars full of hand-folded paper stars.

The fridge held a few packaged pre-made meals, labeled as supermarket clearance discards.

The stove had a few decent cookware, dusty to the touch.

An entertainment industry guy this poor—was that reasonable?

The System checked and said, Reasonable.

“You skipped the college entrance exam in senior year, signed with a company, and started work. The contract had a bet clause—no profit share until meeting their standards, just a base salary, on-call.”

“Am I brain-damaged?” Chu Zu blurted, then corrected, “Well, my brain’s kinda damaged…”

System salvaged: “Not exactly. You’d just turned eighteen, so did Lu Chulin. Neither had social experience, so you got duped…”

“Why’s Lu Chulin involved?” Chu Zu frowned.

System: “The scout first approached him…”

Chu Zu grew suspicious.

A high school senior skipping the exam was odd.

Even with his brain issues, teachers and the orphanage director would intervene.

Adults who’d faced society’s harshness knew the exam’s importance.

No matter how slow Jiang Zu was, in modern society, a degree mattered.

He might fail, but do not even try after reaching senior year… didn’t add up.

The System shared the author’s explanation.

It wasn’t written, only mentioned once by Lu Chulin near the end.

When they learned they were from the same orphanage, Lu Chulin mocked Jiang Zu, saying he gave him the opportunity, but Jiang Zu didn’t cherish it, muddling through and taking it out on Sang Zhe.

The original text had one line.

“You gave Sang Zhe things she didn’t need, acting like it was for her good. Who are you to guilt-trip her? Years later, Jiang Zu, not everyone has to stay stuck in the orphanage, wallowing.”

“So weird.”

Chu Zu asked, “If I add minor settings, can I backtrack to the contract signing?”

System checked the story’s flow: “That’s foundational to your arc. You can’t change it…”

“I’m not changing,” Chu Zu said. “I just want to know what happened.”

He reasoned.

“Otherwise, I can’t gauge how ‘dumb’ to be. From the main plot, my IQ isn’t socially detached. I need a measure.”

The system flipped through the rules.

“No problem!”

It said, “Since it’s your story at eighteen, settings related to eighteen are fine.”

In the detailed backstory, Chu Zu added settings.

[Eighteen-year-old Jiang Zu never wallowed in self-pity.]

[Eighteen-year-old Jiang Zu believed those unkind to him just didn’t understand, because he didn’t express clearly. The world didn’t have that many bad people.]

[Eighteen-year-old Jiang Zu wanted to be smart.]