A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 32: “The Most Ferocious Wound Leaves Only a Scar on the Skin.”

“Hello, I’m Ma Like, a scout from Yuexing Media. I think you have great potential. Have you ever considered entering the entertainment industry?”

“Our company is looking for new faces for projects, and your appearance and temperament perfectly match our current needs.”

Jiang Zu kept his head down, fingers fidgeting with his backpack strap, clearly uncomfortable.

The enthusiastic man across the table slid a business card over, landing neatly by Jiang Zu’s juice.

“A-Zu and I are both in senior year, sir,” Lu Lin said.

Ma Like, a seasoned scout, had an eye for people.

What good student skipped class at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday?

Ma Like had initially targeted Lu Lin.

The boy stood out in the crowd—white shirt, jeans, tall and lean, with naturally light brown hair.

Sunlight filtering through leaves dappled his sharp, smooth features, giving him a fresh, airy vibe.

Leaning against a tree, half-closed eyes resting, he drew second glances from passersby.

Ma Like couldn’t move—this was a walking goldmine!

After approaching, he learned the boy was Lu Lin, eighteen, a senior in high school.

He was waiting for someone.

Any decent adult, hearing “senior year,” would back off or at least get a guardian’s contact for later talks.

Ma Like’s conscience was long gone, eaten by KPIs.

He knew contacting a guardian would likely lead to rejection, so he considered moving on.

Shaking his head regretfully, he turned to leave, but Lu Lin raised his voice.

“A-Zu—over here!”

A black-haired boy in a school uniform ran past Ma Like.

So tall.

That was Ma Like’s first thought.

At 1.78 meters, Ma Like often claimed 1.8, kidding himself.

The boy Lu Lin called A-Zu was at least 1.85, no exaggeration, and at his age, he might grow taller.

Just too skinny.

Ma Like eyed his back.

The oversized uniform made him look like a bamboo pole, swaying in the fabric, as if a breeze could knock him over.

“Here.”

The boy pulled a school uniform jacket from his backpack.

Lu Lin took it, slipped it over his shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and slung an arm over the boy’s shoulder, brotherly, leading him toward Ma Like.

Taller, the boy slightly hunched.

“No rush to school. Let’s eat first. Does the director know I skipped morning classes?” Lu Lin asked.

A soft voice answered, “I didn’t tell Director Mom.”

Lu Lin gave a thumbs-up, nudging his shoulder.

They brushed past Ma Like.

In that moment, Ma Like was certain he glimpsed striking eyes under the boy’s thick glasses.

Half-hidden by thin eyelids, maybe a trick of the light, but the visible pupils were red, slightly pointed.

In his proper uniform, zipped to the top, with standard short student hair—not past the brows or sideburns—he didn’t look like a rebellious kid with colored contacts.

On impulse, Ma Like followed.

Through subtle probing, he learned the boy was Jiang Zu, an orphanage kid like Lu Lin, both eighteen.

This meant they had no legal guardians and were responsible for their own lives and legal matters.

Jiang Zu seemed warier than Lu Lin, tense in his seat, but far less adept at socializing.

Lu Lin danced around the offer, neither agreeing nor refusing.

Even showing interest, he only smiled politely after explanations, turning to Jiang Zu: “What do you think, A-Zu?”

Jiang Zu hid his eyes behind lenses: “I-I don’t know.”

Over the meal, Lu Lin committed to nothing, even scamming a free lunch.

Before leaving, he told Ma Like, “We’ll think about it. Thank you.”

Ma Like didn’t mind the cost, nodding good-naturedly.

“Keep the card. Our company’s downtown, easy to reach. If you’re interested, come by sometime.”

“We’ll arrange professionals to discuss, do image tests, and find the best path for you.”

After Ma Like left, Lu Lin’s smile vanished.

He told Jiang Zu seriously, “Don’t trust him. He’s a scammer.”

Jiang Zu: “Okay.”

“Did the teacher say anything about me?”

“The teacher cares about you…”

“Cares about the guy dragging the class down? Must be bored.”

Jiang Zu opened his mouth, fumbling for words, unable to respond, silenced.

Lu Lin took the business card, stuffing it into his uniform pocket: “Lend me your morning notes. Thanks.”

Jiang Zu relaxed, nodding: “Okay.”

*

“Are you still mad…?” the System asked quietly.

Chu Zu: “A bit.”

System: “…”

I didn't quite get it.

In Neon Crown, Luciano exploited him, yet the host carried on.

In Silent Peach and Plum, a school uniform delivery had him grumpy for almost three hours.

“Cyberpunk’s about surviving, but this is modern urban. He doesn’t wear his uniform, skips class without a plan, and makes me skip to bring it?”

Chu Zu said, “My brain already struggles with studying. Morning math feels like decoding scripture. Staying in senior year’s a fight for my life, and he doesn’t get it?”

The System listened to the host’s cold rant, ending with: “Is this guy brain-dead?”

Pondering, it hesitated: “Are you… still raging over that composite function problem?”

Chu Zu: “…”

Chu Zu: “You’re so annoying.”

Post-backtrack, Chu Zu’s first challenge… was a math test.

Unlike killing, which took guts, math was brutal.

You could muster all your courage, and it’d still be impossible.

You’d break, rage, beg, offer your life—it’d say your “solution” is neat, keep going.

No way to start.

Chu Zu sat diligently, flipping textbooks, scribbling on scratch paper.

Half an hour passed, and beyond “Solution” at the top, he wrote nothing.

The System couldn’t watch: “I’ll… dictate the steps, you write?”

Chu Zu: “I was a humanities student.”

“Sure, so I dictate, you write?”

“It’s been years since I touched math. You’re not human, you don’t get it. High school senior year’s the human brain’s peak—after that, it’s all downhill.”

“…So, write or not?”

Chu Zu sneered: “You doubting me?”

System: “…”

It chalked this up to role immersion, or it couldn’t reconcile this math-struggling senior with the ruthless villain boss.

While wrestling with intelligence, Chu Zu’s phone buzzed.

High schoolers shouldn’t have phones, but orphanage kids were an exception, teachers turning a blind eye.

Chu Zu ignored it.

The System prompted: “It’s Lu Lin.”

It said, “School requires uniforms. Lu Lin’s is on his desk. He got to school around ten, was stopped, argued, failed, and ditched. Now he wants you to bring it.”

Hence Chu Zu’s grudge.

Explaining to the teacher, who was understanding, Chu Zu left the office with extra concern.

“How’s your review going?”

“Keeping up?”

“We’re in second-round review. Stay calm, you’ve learned it all. Reinforce weak spots.”

For Jiang Zu, hard work paid off.

As he aged, studying got harder, but he put in the effort, remembering the director’s advice.

Never ashamed of his slowness, he’d ask teachers repeatedly until he understood.

Teachers pitied the diligent orphanage kid.

Seeing his grades inch up made them happier than anyone.

He barely hit the third-tier college line, sometimes tanking lower, but for Jiang Zu, it was his limit.

The teacher added: “Lu Lin… you’re close. Talk to him sometime. We suggested he repeat a year to recover and catch up. He’s stubborn, now stressed.”

“Worst case, he can retake. You’re both young—there’s time.”

With a permission slip, Chu Zu left school openly.

On the way, he asked about Lu Lin.

The System saved the function problem steps, tagged for later copying, and pulled the backtracked storyline.

…

Lu Lin had an accident in sophomore year.

While camping, he caught a cold, developed a fever.

He ignored it, got meds from the infirmary, and attended classes.

By night, the fever spiked, leaving him too weak to seek help.

In elementary and middle school, Jiang Zu woke Lu Lin for school.

In high school, same school, Lu Lin joined the honors class, saying their schedules didn’t align, refusing to go together.

Though Jiang Zu went early for self-study, near the honors class’s time, Lu Lin chose new classmates, meeting at a junction.

This indirectly caused the tragedy.

No one knew he was feverish.

The director found him during cleaning, rushing him to the hospital.

The fever, worsened by mumps and other infections, wasn’t treated in time, damaging his auditory nerves.

Even after recovery, he stayed at the orphanage, adapting to hearing issues, self-studying, and healing.

By senior year, back at school, his placement test was only twenty points above Jiang Zu’s, far from the honors class.

Teachers suggested repeating a year.

He refused.

“He can’t keep up,” the System said.

“This morning, he skipped self-study for a hospital ear checkup, ran back in the sun, and arrived at the bell.”

“The guard said stuff about bad students and truancy, pissed him off, so he left. Now he’s cooled down.”

Chu Zu: “This quick-to-anger-over-small-things vibe feels so familiar.”

System: “…If you mean little Luciano, Lu Lin’s not that bad.”

*

Indeed.

Lu Lin was decent to Jiang Zu.

In elementary, he backed him up, fighting anyone who bullied him.

In middle school, he was the big brother, known for ten miles as half of the orphanage’s untouchable duo—mainly Lu Lin.

You’d curse Jiang Zu mid-sentence, and he’d show up.

The protective director made parent meetings useless—they were disadvantaged kids.

Even if Lu Lin made classmates cry, they were the victims.

Who started it with trash talk?

In high school, students stratified.

Those uninterested had their fun; studious ones clung to books.

No one bothered Jiang Zu.

Lu Lin had his own clique.

Post-illness, in senior year, he wasn’t in the same class as his old friends.

They were either buried in practice tests or prepping to study abroad.

Stopped for no uniform, he thought of Jiang Zu.

Eighteen was a sensitive age.

Youthful pride made them feel every effort echoed, blood burning.

They felt closer to dreams than ever, one step from a bright future.

Only Jiang Zu didn’t know what the future was.

He studied because everyone did.

Lu Lin asked what college he wanted; he said he didn’t know.

If he got in, the director and teachers would be happy, so he tried.

Lu Lin used to be among the happy.

Now he couldn’t muster it.

Glancing at Jiang Zu, who’d shot up these years, Lu Lin recalled the last test.

Their ranks were close, separated by a long second-tier college line.

He exhaled, then froze among classmates.

Since when… did he need to compare grades with Jiang Zu?

Lu Lin felt humiliated.

Poor grades were his fault, and he was scrambling to recover.

Repeating a year?

Unthinkable.

They didn’t understand—orphanage tuition was limited.

After compulsory education, he and Jiang Zu relied on subsidies.

Policies didn’t cover repeaters or retakers.

He’d always been the orphanage’s least troublesome, solving issues, and his illness already strained their budget.

Asking the director for money to repeat?

Lu Lin couldn’t.

Back at school around 1 p.m., the classroom was quiet, a few napping.

Passing Jiang Zu’s desk, Lu Lin saw his math test, clean except for “Solution” on the second-to-last big problem.

Teacher’s advice: if it’s too hard, skip the last multiple-choice and fill-in.

Ignore the final big problem—secure the points you can.

Jiang Zu returned, diving back into the problem.

All afternoon, Lu Lin was restless.

It was April, not hot, but the sun outside felt scorching, burning his skin.

The classroom air was heavy, only the teacher’s lecture and pens scratching paper audible.

Before evening self-study, Lu Lin overheard classmates.

“Heard about that cram school? Their predictions are spot-on.”

“Crazy? It’s April, new cram school? Weekends are booked with classes soon.”

“Then I’ll go alone.”

“Hey, don’t! Secret dating’s fine, but secret progress is too much. Let’s go!”

Lu Lin glanced at the classroom’s banner:

Roam the five continents, master the three classes and two reviews, your life’s path starts here.

He thought the college exam was fair, but fate isn’t.

Orphanage kids were born abandoned, unexpected, unable to afford illness or mistakes.

At dinner, Lu Lin saw Jiang Zu still stuck on that problem, no progress all afternoon.

He touched the business card in his pocket, fingers tightening, then releasing.

*

“Why’s Lu Lin hiding the card from you?”

After evening self-study, back at the orphanage, the System muttered.

“He doesn’t share contact info, so how’d you get scammed by that shady company? Is this a plot bug?”

Orphanage rooms were four-person, but the director gave seniors like Jiang Zu and Lu Lin solo rooms.

The room had bunk beds, a long desk piled with books.

A cheap lamp sat on the desk, fine for most, but Jiang Zu’s eyes needed breaks from studying.

Chu Zu battled the function problem, not minding the System’s chatter, responding absently.

“Stubborn pride.”

Nibbling his pen cap, “He’s proud, originally smart, thought being an orphan was no big deal. Now, short on money and time, with the exam looming, reality hit him hard. He’s panicking.”

“Oh, you reminded me.”

Chu Zu dropped the pen, stretched, and stood, dragging the chair.

“I should check on Lu Lin.”

System, glancing at the time, nearly 11 p.m.: “Now?”

“No choice. I don’t know romance novels or their audience. Following the original plot, I’d get hate. Gotta find another way.”

Squinting against the light, confirming no issues, Chu Zu shuffled to the door.

“Never been a simp, feels weird. Sang Zhe’s adopted, not here, right? I’ll practice with Lu Lin, then get to work, simping equally for all. They can’t hate that.”

System: “…”

After saying this, Chu Zu seemed to sense utilitarianism, quickly adding: “We’re close now. Seeing him upset, it’s reasonable to check.”

That sounded dignified, and the System accepted it.

Lu Lin wasn’t in his room.

Chu Zu debated returning to fight the problem or searching.

He chose the latter, sparing himself today.

Outside the director’s office, he found Lu Lin.

Before he could call out, Lu Lin yanked him over, covering his mouth.

The office door was ajar, the director on the phone.

“We’ve always had two slots. Why suddenly…”

“No, I don’t mean to pressure donations, sorry. It’s just so sudden. We have two kids heading to college, I…”

“Yes, Lu Lin and Jiang Zu.”

“You said… Jiang Zu? Didn’t it used to be based on grades?”

“…”

When the director mentioned their names, Chu Zu felt Lu Lin’s grip tighten.

He asked the System: “Can you hear the other side?”

System: “They said they’ll fund your college.”

Puzzled: “The director said it’s always by grades. Isn’t Lu Lin’s score better?”

Chu Zu reacted fast.

“Because I’m more pitiful.”

He said, “When the candidate shines, they pick the best scorer—a top-tier college is a win, an elite school a jackpot. It’s great press.”

“Now Lu Lin’s at best second-tier, me third-tier, neither headline-worthy. So they fund the sadder case—saves money, sounds good.”

*

Lu Lin didn’t know what the caller said, but he could guess.

Coming from another orphanage, he was attuned to operational issues.

Sure enough, as the director sighed and said “Okay,” Lu Lin paled, struggling to breathe, trembling.

Wordlessly, he dragged Jiang Zu away.

“You okay?”

Jiang Zu asked softly.

Lu Lin snapped back, realizing he’d pulled Jiang Zu to the cafeteria.

Empty, lights off, only faint moonlight spilled through.

In the moonlight, through thick lenses, Lu Lin glimpsed Jiang Zu’s red eyes, not eerie, full of concern.

“The director said only one of us gets funded for college,” Lu Lin rasped.

Jiang Zu panicked.

“Only one? Why? Isn’t passing enough?”

“Only one gets funded,” Lu Lin said. “You know what funded means, right?”

“…I know, sorry, I got anxious, didn’t listen.”

He meant to explain the situation, but seeing Jiang Zu’s unease, Lu Lin’s emotions churned.

It shouldn’t be like this.

Orphanage kids fought to reach the starting line.

Why divide them further?

What could Jiang Zu do with college?

Would companies hire him?

He didn’t even know why he studied.

No ambition, just happy with kindness, yet bad at socializing.

He thought years of no bullying meant acceptance.

Wrong.

Without Lu Lin in the middle, he’d be mocked, a joke.

Born with eye issues and now mental defects… This guy was stealing his chance?

Lu Lin was swept by his thoughts.

Post-illness frustrations, pent up, detonated in the silence.

“You know what this means?” he heard himself say.

Jiang Zu thought slowly, finding no answer: “I don’t know…”

“My grades are better, so they’ll pick me. If you want college, you’re on your own. The director and teachers will suggest a national student loan—you’ll owe a lot.”

Jiang Zu’s eyes widened.

Like his throat was seized, he couldn’t breathe.

Moonlight turned to frost, nearly freezing him.

Anyone asking would know student loans had long repayment terms, starting after stable employment.

For hometown loans, interest was government-subsidized during school, only accruing post-graduation, with no penalty for early repayment.

Nothing scary—a purely beneficial policy.

But Jiang Zu didn’t know, his mind and experience too limited to think it through, left with instinctual rejection, even terror.

Abandoned for his parents’ debts, the process brutal.

He didn’t blame them.

The director taught him to accept his eye condition, so he pinned all misfortune on one thing.

Debt.

The director warned Lu Lin not to mention money around Jiang Zu.

He was sensitive, traumatized, and the orphanage lacked resources for counseling, so they avoided triggers.

Lu Lin thought the director overreacted.

All orphanage kids were abandoned for various reasons.

He knew Jiang Zu’s mind wasn’t mature, childish, or easy to scare.

The director wouldn’t tell Jiang Zu about the funding change—no need, he’d get college aid.

She’d approach Lu Lin, urging acceptance.

Lu Lin wouldn’t accept.

But Jiang Zu’s reaction was beyond expectation.

He froze, tall but hunched, lips trembling pale.

Seconds later, he stumbled back, his leg hitting a cafeteria chair, tripping.

His glasses fell, crushed underfoot.

Unaware, he crouched, shrinking under the table, biting his lip, arms clutching his head.

The noise reached outside.

The director rushed in.

She turned on the light, seeing stunned Lu Lin, following his gaze to Jiang Zu under the table.

“What happened?”

She hurried over, crouching: “A-Zu, come out, okay?”

Jiang Zu stared through his fingers, red eyes dim in the shadows.

With less light, his pupils weren’t as slit-like, resembling a cat’s in stress.

The director reached out.

As her hand neared, Jiang Zu shrank back, his unshielded face full of fear and withdrawal.

“What happened?!” She turned to Lu Lin, still dazed. “What did you say to him!”

Lu Lin realized the severity, confessing everything.

Hearing it, the director nearly faltered, chest heaving, trying not to snap.

“Jiang Zu’s case isn’t as simple as you think, Lu Lin.”

She said, “At the hospital, the doctor called the police. They found his parents.”

“His father was a drunk gambler, never sober. His mother refused to take him back.”

Jiang Zu’s mother told the police.

Since he could remember, Jiang Zu had no peace.

His father blamed him for family woes, beating him often.

If not for his mother’s desperate protection, he’d be dead.

At night, the man gambled, the woman worked odd jobs, leaving Jiang Zu alone.

Debt collectors came.

The pounding on the iron door outraced his heartbeat, strangers cursing outside, demanding repayment.

Bastard, think you can owe and get away with it?

The deafening bangs mixed with shouts—pay up, pay up, pay up.

His mother taught him: Hide, A-Zu.

Hide, cover your ears, don’t listen, don’t respond, stay quiet, wait for me.

Neighbors, fed up, called the police, forcing moves.

Once, twice, thrice…

The nightmarish nights followed.

Eventually, even his mother broke, cruelly abandoning him at the park with her husband.

“She begged the police. She couldn’t escape, but let A-Zu go. He was young, he’d forget. They sent him here.”

The director’s expression darkened.

“How could he forget… He’s eighteen, mentally delayed, his life just the orphanage and school, no happy memories to fill childhood. He doesn’t care about abandonment, doesn’t even know what he fears.”

“After Sang Zhe left, you’re his only friend… Why would you do this, Lu Lin…”

The most ferocious wound leaves only a scar on the skin.

Jiang Zu’s scars were invisible.

His poor vision hid them, only bleeding anew revealed the damage.

Lu Lin shuddered like shocked.

He dropped to check on Jiang Zu.

Just eighteen, Jiang Zu was no different from childhood, his only defense monotonous—he remembered this.

Hide, A-Zu.

Hide, cover your ears, don’t listen, don’t respond, stay quiet.

Lu Lin meant to scare him into giving up college.

He didn’t know his nine years of torment.

“Sorry…”

With the director, Lu Lin moved the table.

Under the light, Jiang Zu, with nowhere to hide, sweated coldly.

When Lu Lin helped him up, his skin was cold, rigid.

The director tried to take him, but Jiang Zu clutched Lu Lin, tense, eyes sweaty, speaking softly after a long pause.

“I won’t go to school.”

Tall, he bent, gripping Lu Lin’s arm, leaning heavily, pleading, “Lu Lin, help me, I won’t go to school.”