A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 33: “Efforts Are Rewarded, Everything Echoes.”

“You absolutely don’t need acting lessons!”

The System was dumbfounded, tinged with faint worry.

Having audited the host’s six-month acting course, it knew what he could and couldn’t do.

PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) was always a tough spot in acting lessons.

It required case-by-case analysis, deeply understanding the character’s mental state, portraying layered emotional shifts, and focusing on the transition between emotional suppression and outbursts.

The shift from calm to collapse varied by person; overly rigid or dramatic approaches felt fake.

The balance was hard to nail.

The acting teacher advised against attempting it without ample practice.

In class, Chu Zu’s strength was playing stoic.

The analysis puzzled the System.

Stoicism wasn’t easy—it had types.

Innate emotional detachment, arrogance too lazy for expressions, cultural restraint—all shown as blank faces, distinguished only by the actor’s aura.

Chu Zu was the “Mona Lisa” of stoicism, a master of countless angles and emotions, always spot-on.

But PTSD, requiring intense empathy and outward expression… he should be clueless, right?

Watching the host hit an acting peak he shouldn’t have, the System could only think one thing.

Maybe its host had some mental issues.

“If you need counseling services… After this mission, I’ll apply for early leave.”

The System said tactfully, “No pressure, of course. Just think of it as a chat… uh…”

Chu Zu: “This can’t go in the main text.”

System: “Huh?”

“My fault,” Chu Zu regretted.

“I shouldn’t have backtracked. A vague past was enough. The clearer it gets, the worse.”

System: “Worried about Lu Lin’s character arc shifting?”

It fed the host’s reactions into its algorithm, cross-referencing the author’s outline and backstory.

The impartial algorithm concluded.

It said, “But you didn’t induce him to act or add plot-altering settings. You changed nothing; this is the original track.”

“That’s why it’s bad.”

Chu Zu still didn’t get romance, avoiding comments on the leads’ love story, but he was too seasoned in writing.

Authors couldn’t write beyond their imagination, but once the correction system intervened, backtracking filled in the past, adhering strictly to existing settings’ logic.

Those events existed, just not in the main text.

Every end had a start; character arcs and plotlines were road signs pointing the way.

The director separated them, helping Jiang Zu back to his room.

Lu Lin, uneasy, trailed behind.

He didn’t dare enter, standing quietly at the door.

The director told Lu Lin, “I’ll handle your situation.”

The room’s light was warm white.

The usually patient, gentle director looked stern, not scolding—she felt Lu Lin was past that age.

“You’re eighteen, not eight. I don’t need to tell you lying is wrong, bullying is bad, especially what you did, far worse.”

“You’re an adult, Lu Lin. Adults take responsibility.”

Lu Lin watched her gently rub Jiang Zu’s stiff back, head down: “I know.”

On the lower bunk, Jiang Zu mumbled, “Sorry, my grades are bad…”.

Tugging her finger, “Director Mom, I won’t go to school.”

Jiang Zu had grown fast these two years; the orphanage bed was too short, his curled-up form visibly cramped.

Beyond his height, his features shed childishness, sharpening, eyes elongating.

It should’ve been imposing, but his demeanor was meek, easy to bully.

Not having looked closely in years, Lu Lin found the familiar face strangely alien.

He remembered Jiang Zu crying as a kid, reddening his already red eyes.

Now, those eyes held no childish grievance, empty, slightly lost, waiting for the director’s answer.

She didn’t reply, patting his back.

Over fifty, her temples grayed, smile lines deep, but her eyes were gentle, focused, easing unease.

“Rest now, A-Zu. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Jiang Zu grew anxious but didn’t press, curling tighter on the bunk, fingers slowly clenching the sheet.

…

“I can’t be smart, can’t have a great career, can’t be eloquent. I need to contrast the male lead and avoid being annoying. Not hard.”

Chu Zu, less practiced at showing weakness, explained to the System.

“I’m pathologically slow, raised by the director and teachers’ encouragement. Sang Zhe sends me paper stars yearly; Lu Lin backs me up in trouble.”

“Everyone’s teaching me the world is good, things will be fine. I can’t turn too bad. Just stay out of the leads’ romance.”

“Backtracking filled in the plot, and this job’s difficulty changed.”

The director turned off the light, closed the door, and led Lu Lin away.

After a bit, Chu Zu sat up slowly.

The earlier emotional spike left his nerves taut; calming down, his head felt empty, numb, his body adjusting beyond his control.

Wanting water to soothe his throat, he turned on the light but couldn’t see the mug, missing it several times.

Finally holding it, the rim stung his lips.

He licked them—full of small cuts from biting.

“In Neon Crown, my arc was vague, mostly tied to Luciano. The protagonist Tang Qi had his own solid growth line. My changes didn’t affect him. But Lu Lin’s different.”

Sipping water, the coolness cleared his throat and thoughts.

“Lu Lin’s only eighteen, no parents, groping through growth, easily swayed.”

“Pressure and environment pushed him to a fork, but no one taught him what to do. The director just says, ‘You can’t do this,’ which doesn’t help.”

System: “Want me to get the male lead’s backstory from the author? Seems like you need it.”

“No need.”

Another sip, Chu Zu said slowly, “I roughly get the author’s approach.”

A common issue in fast-food fiction.

To define a work’s genre, platforms assigned tags with built-in popularity.

Authors, to eat, crafted selling points from hot tags.

Clearer selling points reached target readers faster.

Like “beautiful-strong-tragic.”

This led authors to pile on character buffs, making them as tragic as possible, but rationalizing it in a specific era was tough.

Most couldn’t write beyond their knowledge.

“When authors only write how tragic a character is, readers pity them, wanting them to be okay. Logical gaps outside the main plot? Authors ignore them.”

Chu Zu said, “But she wants film rights, and screenwriters will dig into arcs…”

The System smelled disaster: “Lu Lin’s arc and storyline can’t hold up under scrutiny!”

“Right.” Chu Zu fretted, “At college, meeting more people, broadening his view, he’ll fix these flaws—but it’s still a criticized point.”

Modern urban life is complex, but novels set there are simple.

Characters are complex, but what’s shown is simple.

The main text didn’t need to show the male lead’s youthful deeds.

He debuted mature, likable, charming.

Readers weren’t obliged to question beyond the blurb’s emotional value—that was the author’s job.

Chu Zu’s head ached: “I’m too tied to him, easily becoming the right-or-wrong.”

Before, the System hadn’t considered this.

Following the host’s perspective, it focused on Jiang Zu’s arc, wary of hateable moments—the job’s core.

Forum fights always stemmed from characters doing outrageous things.

“What do you need me to do?” the System asked honestly.

Chu Zu thought calmly: “Check with the author if these backtracked events appear in the main text or epilogues.”

“Okay!”

The System dove in, returning with good news.

“None of this backtracking shows in the main text or epilogues. Once the timeline resets, Lu Lin becomes Lu Chulin, and the orphanage is just a backdrop!”

It rushed, “The author knows her writing’s flawed, says she won’t interfere with your minor tweaks, just hopes you don’t quit!”

Chu Zu exhaled, the System following suit.

Then the chick heard the host: “Still not safe enough.”

System tensed: “What else do we do?”

“I need to stay away from Lu Lin.”

Chu Zu said firmly, “He follows his plot, I follow mine, no overlap. If unavoidable, remind me to show up, let the couple have their deep calf love… mutual redemption.”

Now the System got it: “You think it’s too much hassle, want to slack off.”

Chu Zu: “You can’t put it like that…”

Chu Zu: “Fine, yeah, I want to slack off.”

System: “…”

It knew it—the dagger’s edge revealed!

“Trust me, I’m a pro. Even slacking, I won’t mess up. Look at it this way: it’s part of the job. A useless, chatty guy versus a hardworking, occasionally chatty one—isn’t the latter less likely to get hate?”

Hearing “hardworking,” the System caught on: “You’re still hung up on your entertainment career arc.”

Chu Zu didn’t hide, setting down the cup: “Jiang Zu gave up school. Why not let him shine in the industry!”

His vision still poor, he thought he placed the cup right, but it shattered on the floor.

The System had seen this cup-breaking bravado before, a do-or-die vibe.

Silent for a moment, it didn’t object or dissuade.

By the host’s past style, not quietly sabotaging Lu Lin was already saintly.

Honestly… it felt the host was scheming something.

In Neon Crown, he called it ambition, but it was far more, and neither author nor hearing found fault.

The System stopped guessing the host’s plans, focusing on risks.

If slacking got flagged as negligence, how to counter the penalty?

Then the door burst open.

The system shouted: “Expression! Host, watch your expression—!”

…

Lu Lin rushed in, frantic: “What’s wrong? A-Zu, you okay?!”

The room’s desk lamp was dim, warm white.

Jiang Zu crouched by the desk, light softening his outline, but his shadow on the bunk was stark, jagged.

Lu Lin moved to pick up the porcelain shards.

Jiang Zu hesitated, saying softly, “No need, I’ll do it. Go sleep.”

He lowered his face further into the shadows, “Teacher said sleep enough to study well, you…”

He flinched, a shard cutting his finger.

He quickly closed his hand, acting fine, pushing Lu Lin out.

“You’ve always been the smartest. Keep it up.”

The night breeze rattled the gapped window.

Even out of shadow, Lu Lin couldn’t see his face.

The words pulled Lu Lin back years.

When Sang Zhe was adopted, Jiang Zu helped pack her bags.

She had little to bring—her new family was wealthy, her foster parents fond, bringing gifts for all the orphanage kids.

Leaving, Sang Zhe hugged Jiang Zu and Lu Lin tightly.

Usually reserved, shying from touch, she held them close.

At the orphanage gate, watching the car drive off, Jiang Zu sighed: “That’s nice.”

Someone nearby said coolly, “She’s got a skill. Should’ve clung to piano lessons as a kid, get adopted at sixteen.”

Jiang Zu: “No, it’s because Sang Zhe’s great, talented, smart.”

They muttered, “Come on, the best, most talented, smartest guy’s right beside you. Why wasn’t he picked?”

Jiang Zu’s thinking was like a twelve-year-old’s, all on studying.

He liked talking to Lu Lin or Sang Zhe but wasn’t good at expressing.

If it was about him, he ignored it.

About Lu Lin, he wouldn’t have it, ready to argue.

Lu Lin grabbed the guy’s collar: “Why not say it to my face?”

Jiang Zu tried to break it up, failed, and they both got scolded by the director.

Lu Lin wasn’t convinced.

With the director there, Jiang Zu whispered an apology: “I won’t respond next time.”

“It’s not about responding,” Lu Lin said.

“He’s jealous, trash-talking, deserves a beating. If he talks about Sang Zhe again, punch him twice.”

The director raised her voice: “I’m still here!”

Lu Lin shut up, then whispered to Jiang Zu as she talked to the guy: “Forget it, don’t fight. You’d lose, get beat, and be scolded.”

Jiang Zu: “I’m taller.”

“Height’s useless. Is the director tall?”

“No.”

“But no one in the orphanage can beat her.”

“Oh, right.”

Lu Lin laughed, and Jiang Zu followed, glasses slipping, looking silly.

When the director questioned Jiang Zu, he said firmly, “He’s jealous, trash-talking, deserves a beating! If he talks about Sang—”

Lu Lin, still laughing, quickly covered his mouth.

The director had never heard Jiang Zu curse, not even “you’re annoying.”

She froze.

The matter dropped.

Leaving the office, Jiang Zu marveled: “You’re so smart, Lu Lin. I’ve never seen the director stop mid-scold.”

Lu Lin laughed, stomach aching: “Yeah, I’m pretty smart. But don’t copy me—it’ll cause trouble.”

Jiang Zu nodded: “You’ve always been the smartest.”

He said, “I want to be smart too…”

Lu Lin nodded seriously with him: “Then keep it up.”

Jiang Zu clenched his fist: “Yeah, I’ll keep it up!”

…

Watching Lu Lin flee, Chu Zu exhaled.

“When did he sneak outside?”

“No idea.”

The System, a relieved chick, said, “Should I add him to the tracking list? That was too close.”

Chu Zu: “Do it now.”

Chu Zu wasn’t great at this character role.

When Lu Lin burst in, his face was blank.

Blank was generous—per the System’s learned phrase.

Without a few kills under your belt, you couldn’t pull off that look.

But the host knew his weakness, stayed stone-faced, and talked Lu Lin out.

The System tried again: “How about we buy ‘Cat and Mouse Game’?”

Chu Zu: “I’ll take acting lessons soon. I don’t believe acting’s harder than composite functions.”

System: “…”

*

From that day, Jiang Zu took sick leave, skipping school.

The director and teacher tried persuading him for weeks, but as exam month neared, the teacher couldn’t split focus.

Realizing words failed, the director started seeking other paths for him.

Just turned eighteen, Jiang Zu could work part-time.

He took a night shift at a distant supermarket, catching the last bus out, the first back.

His bank account, set up for subsidies, received his wages.

That day, he withdrew it all, offering it to the director.

She refused.

Jiang Zu thought, then said, “For Lu Lin’s tutoring. Classmates said there’s a cram school with spot-on predictions. He’s smart, he’ll learn fast.”

The director took deep breaths, speechless.

Jiang Zu read her expression.

Not fully read—before, that look meant a hug and comforting words.

He didn’t feel he needed comfort but bent, chin on her shoulder, hugging her.

“Thank you, Director Mom. I’ll find a better-paying job. Don’t worry.”

Chu Zu pondered how to get Ma Like’s business card from Lu Lin.

Without it, no entertainment industry entry—no acting lessons, no main plot.

At first, the chick panicked in Chu Zu’s mind, but seeing his calm, it oddly settled, its daily task just alerting if Lu Lin neared.

Months passed fast; the college entrance exam arrived.

The government ensured a good testing environment—traffic controls, no honking in some areas, even square-dancing aunties paused.

News buzzed with exam topics, the quiet class group chat exploded with teacher reminders, the orphanage hushed, rowdy kids calmed by the director.

In Jiang Zu’s city, the exam lasted two days.

Just past 5 p.m. on June 8, the silent streets woke.

Chu Zu sat by the orphanage window, eyes closed, soaking sun, phone buzzing nonstop.

The class group debated where to celebrate, and whether to invite the teacher.

Someone called the teacher; a classmate played dumb with an emoji.

Others tried comparing answers, met with brutal scolding.

They settled on a dinner spot, then someone asked—

[Call Jiang Zu?]

In class, Jiang Zu’s only tie was helping with problems.

Classmates were kind, patient.

When he couldn’t understand, he’d stop, take the problem to the teacher, not wasting their time.

That was their only connection.

Lu Lin was always his closest.

Unaware of their rift, classmates called Jiang Zu, got no reply, then asked Lu Lin.

Minutes ago, Lu Lin joked in the group, his emojis visible in the log.

Now silent, the lively chat cooled.

Then Chu Zu got a message from the class monitor.

Sincere, eloquent.

Even if Jiang Zu didn’t take the exam, they'd have been classmates for years.

Some planned to work part-time post-graduation.

He hoped Jiang Zu would join, as future meetups were rare.

It included the time and dinner address.

“Are you going?”

The system asked.

Chu Zu tapped his phone, replying: “Going.”

System: “You might not avoid Lu Lin, but I think he’ll dodge you.”

“No dodging, I need a chance to get the card. Is it still with him?”

“Yes. But he said it’s a scam, and you’d believe him… Got a reason yet?”

“Working on it.”

System: “…”

June was warm.

Chu Zu rummaged—clothes were donated, few fit his frame, just faded, worn T-shirts.

“The orphanage’s struggling,” Chu Zu said, dressing.

“The director hasn’t rested much. I go to work, she’s on the phone. When I return, she’s still on it.”

The System meant to check, but Chu Zu continued—

“Birth rates are down, fewer kids abandoned, fewer young ones here. Good, but government funds shrink. Many unadopted kids age up, costs stay high.”

“The director wants every kid in high school. If subsidies don’t come, she covers it for years.”

The System checked—spot-on.

“Philanthropists prefer building Hope Schools. Beyond shady reasons, education has a big social impact, high visibility. Besides schools, it’s healthcare or environment. Orphanages will struggle more.”

Chu Zu dressed, put on new glasses, said flatly, “It’s already tough.”

In Neon Crown’s fictional world, the System and host focused on work or raising Sidney, grasping his style but not deeper layers.

In this urban setting, hearing the director and donor’s talk, he knew their plans; without digging, he pieced together the orphanage’s state from details…

This wasn’t just “heard about it.”

The System suspected the host had mental issues and a rough past.

Plus, clueless in romance, he pivoted to career, all ambition, likely never in love.

Never loved, died suddenly, switched careers—that’s worse!

“Can I stay in this timeline until our initial drop point?”

Chu Zu said, “Give me years, I could prop up the orphanage.”

System, troubled: “No. Like last time, backtracking ends with no time gap. All plot experience compresses to a second—your brain can’t handle it.”

It calculated, “Two months post-exam is the limit. You’ll feel awful after.”

Chu Zu: “Hm.”

Since some classmates went home first, dinner was set for 7:30 p.m., still early.

The orphanage was remote, a fifty-minute bus ride.

Chu Zu walked slowly.

…

After thirty minutes, nearing the main road, crowds grew.

Chu Zu walked among them, groups of post-exam teens chatting.

Some planned pre-result trips, others recklessly compared answers, some braced for retaking.

He saw parents grabbing a flyer guy, furious, shouting to passersby that pitching retake classes right after exams was cursing failure.

Passersby looked indignant; some hotheads wanted to jump in.

None concerned Jiang Zu.

Sycamore leaves fell from his shoulder to the ground.

Head down, he walked as people and cars flowed past like streams.

No one noticed the tall guy in a faded T-shirt, nor did he notice them, stepping through leaf shadows, counting steps.

Chu Zu counted diligently.

The System, thinking he worried for the orphanage, only navigated, avoiding disturbance.

When he hit high five-digits, the System spoke: “Um…”

Chu Zu sighed: “Wondered when you’d speak. Where was I? Did you track?”

“Tracked,” System said. “But it’s almost eight. The class monitor called, but your phone died after last night’s shift.”

Chu Zu: “…”

System: “Run?”

“How far?”

“At this pace, about half an hour. Past that bridge, you’re close.”

“No running,” Chu Zu said. “They won’t scatter soon. Let them eat, drink, maybe get Lu Lin drunk.”

A new route planned, Chu Zu climbed the bridge steps.

The wind picked up.

Bridge lights glowed densely.

Nearing eight, night fully fell, shadows on the walkway stretched and shrank.

Suddenly, someone shouted: “Don’t jump! Girl, don’t jump!!”

Looking, Chu Zu saw a red shadow leap from the bridge.

Screams grew.

June was rainy; recent heavy rain raised river levels, speeding the current.

No one dared swim in flood season, especially from a twenty-meter bridge—jumping to save was suicide.

Quick reactors called 110 and 119, leaning over the railing.

The red figure flickered in the dark water, nearly vanishing.

The System urgently reported: “Lu Lin’s leaving!”

It said, “He told classmates he got an out-of-town job, booked a 9 p.m. ticket—you’re almost out of time!”

Chu Zu, as if deaf, sprinted to the edge, gripped the railing, and vaulted over.

“If I lose my glasses in the water, can’t see, will ‘Master Wang’ still work?” he asked.

The System realized he meant to save her, with no prior cases to reference.

Forgetting Lu Lin, it offered: “I’ll input distance and direction manually! You can do it blind!”

“Good.”

Chu Zu let go, plunging to the water.

Midair, “Master Wang” loaded, activated.

The boy’s body adjusted precisely in moments.

Feet together, toes pointed, arms ahead, he kept upright to minimize impact on head, neck, and spine.

Hitting the water, pressure nearly burst his eardrums.

Glasses gone, he saw nothing, closing his eyes.

“Target at 74 degrees, 128 meters, near the south bank, facing north.”

“River flows east to west, speed over 4.2 meters per second.”

“Target drifting to the central deep zone, water’s deep—intercept quickly.”

The System’s parameters updated rapidly, impressively efficient.

Chu Zu fully surrendered control to the assistant.

He felt every move, more precise than his peak Neon Crown physique, like a programmed machine.

He tried squinting; murky water stung his eyes.

The assistant controlled his body.

Still blind, he faintly saw red bobbing in the current.

“Young woman.”

Man, woman, or dog, Chu Zu used the flow to approach from the side.

She was unconscious.

With no gear to secure himself, he grabbed her, locking her to his chest.

“Swim southwest, use the current to shore.”

Ashore, Chu Zu shut off “Master Wang.”

His body slackened, post-exertion soreness flooding in.

From jump to rescue, under ten minutes.

The pricey assistant was no joke, pushing human limits, perfectly mobilizing every muscle.

“I can’t scan non-host vitals. She’s likely drowned,” System said.

“Rescue should arrive soon. If worried, I can give CPR steps to try.”

Unprofessional CPR could worsen things; the System didn’t recommend it.

Chu Zu lifted her waist, laying her flat on the bank, away from water.

Confirming safety, he leaned close, pried open her mouth, checking for airway blockages.

Clear.

He pressed an ear to her mouth, hand on her chest.

“No breathing, faint heartbeat.”

Chu Zu knelt astride her, hands stacked over her sternum.

“Am I aligned?” he asked.

Straightforward chest compression.

System: “Right eight centimeters, between a woman’s breasts—you’ll find it!”

Even without aid, Chu Zu’s moves were uncannily precise.

Elbows straight, upper body pressing, depth around five centimeters.

The System calculated: thirty compressions, 110 per minute, two rescue breaths, cycling.

Textbook CPR!

It nearly blurted: Master, what’s your job?

Soon, she coughed up water, breathing mostly restored.

Chu Zu turned her sideways, head slightly back, keeping airways open.

She coughed, gasping, slowly opening eyes in a blur.

“Good thing it’s not cold, no hypothermia…”

Before the system relaxed, it rushed, “Lu Lin left early! Take a cab to the station, you can make it!”

“Illogical,” Chu Zu said.

“I don’t know he’s leaving. To chase, I’d go to dinner first.”

Patting her coughing back, he told the System mentally.

“Volunteering’s online now, diplomas mailed. If he leaves, he likely won’t return.”

System, stunned: “But… his funding, cram school… the orphanage is struggling…”

“I get backtracking logic,” Chu Zu said.

“I’m slow, but childhood made me sensitive to money shortages. I know the director’s recent woes. Learning at the dinner Lu Lin’s leaving, I’d panic.”

The system nodded.

“I see him as the orphanage’s smartest. If he won’t help the director, I can’t.”

“An orphanage kid saving an orphanage is hard. My brain wouldn’t think that far. I’d pressure Lu Lin publicly, and he’d crack.”

“So he gave me the card. His later words make sense.”

Chu Zu said, “Thriving in the industry, he’d think he gave me a chance. Entertainment pays more than a slow guy’s third-tier degree.”

“…How about I tell the boss we will drop this job?”

Fuming, the chick stomped in Chu Zu’s mind.

“This is beyond your revision scope. Back in the main timeline, you’ll face those hateable plot points…”

It couldn’t think further.

Chu Zu: “The issue isn’t that. I messed up.”

Lost in indignation, System snapped: “Nonsense! Where’s the mess? Even as my host, you can’t badmouth my host!”

Chu Zu: “…Calm down.”

Looking at the person sitting up with his help, vision issues hid her face and expression.

“To save her, I missed talking to Lu Lin. Even calling later, without public pressure, he won’t rashly give me the card.”

“Two months till the main timeline. Think a slow orphan has other ways into entertainment?”

System: “…”

System: “I’ll give you the company address. Loiter there, maybe bump into that scout?”

“Jiang Zu would rather stock supermarket shelves.”

The system gritted its teeth, all in: “…Pay the penalty, we’re out!”

“I want to do it.”

Chu Zu said earnestly, “Jiang Zu believes in the world’s kind. I’ll prove his faith right. No hate, no cramped life—his efforts rewarded, everything echoing. Isn’t that good?”

System, choked up: “Good…”

“I’ll negotiate with the author… fiercely… I’ll secure Jiang Zu’s bright future!”

“Thanks.”

Chu Zu paused, adding, “This rescue shouldn’t matter, right? She’s not in the main plot, no later ties.”

Their talk, all mental, was swift.

Before the System answered, firefighters arrived.

…

Firefighters assessed the girl’s vitals, hearing bystanders’ accounts—her time in water, rescue details.

They gave Jiang Zu, exhausted on the ground, a thumbs-up: “Timely CPR, great job!”

Soaked, his T-shirt clung, making his thin frame narrower, spine visible from behind.

At the praise, he shyly pursed his lips, eyes down.

Trying to stand, his legs gave out, vision issues flaring.

Eye nerves linked to the brain—first stinging, then tugging relentlessly, pain making him rub his temples.

Firefighters sent both to the hospital.

In the ambulance, Jiang Zu wanted to leave—hospital meant money, which he lacked, not wanting to burden the director.

The blanketed girl spoke.

“Sit still, don’t move. I’ll pay.”

Jiang Zu looked blankly.

Her red dress dulled under the blanket; he gauged direction by her voice.

She spoke fast, hoarse from water, but crisp.

“Let’s make a deal. You saved me, I repay you. When that old fart comes, say nothing, let me get you a big sum.”

The medic’s expression was complex.

She recognized the dress—four figures, with forced add-on junk from the luxury brand.

With the river jump, the medic sensed a rich girl’s rebellion.

She said nothing—others handled discipline; they focused on rescue.

Jumping in flood season was suicidal.

Without a miracle save, she’d be a corpse.

“I’m Lily Zhou. You?” the girl said.

Jiang Zu softly gave his name.

At the hospital, he got an eye checkup, no fees demanded.

The doctor prescribed new meds, urging regular follow-ups.

Leaving, it was nearly ten.

From afar, Jiang Zu heard a roar.

“Zhou Lily, you can’t listen to a damn word, can you?!”

“You speak sense for me to listen? Bullshit.”

Lily Zhou—or Zhou Lily—snapped back.

She stood three meters from the furious man, a fifteen-ish boy holding him back.

“You drove her to jump and still yell?” the boy fired at the man.

“Some man you are. If she got hurt, you’d be crying.”

The man, near exploding, belly heaving, roared, “Zhou Ji, let go, I’ll deal with you later!”

“Hit me, I’ll call the cops. When it hits the news, see who’s shamed!”

Zhou Ji didn’t fear his dad, his fire matching his sister’s.

“If you’re not scared of shame, I’ll haunt Mom in dreams. What’d you promise her when she died?”

The man nearly choked: “You were a baby when she died. What do you know?”

Zhou Lily, coolly: “I’ve been born years, could jump and snatch your wig, bald ass.”

This family stunned passersby.

Jiang Zu overheard whispers.

“Is that Zhou Shengzheng?”

“Looks like him. Wasn’t he on TV days ago?”

“Wasn’t he at Cannes?”

“Back, I guess. No award.”

“The entertainment industry, huh… even a director’s family is… wild.”

“…”

Uncomfortable in such scenes, Jiang Zu planned to detour back to the orphanage.

Zhou Lily, sharp-eyed, spotted him, shouting to Zhou Ji, “Car keys!”

Zhou Ji swiftly nabbed the keys from his dad’s pocket, tossing them to her.

Throw and catch—perfect sync.

Before Zhou Shengzheng could erupt, Zhou Lily darted to Jiang Zu, dragging him to the parking lot.

…

The System and Chu Zu were gobsmacked.

Stammering, it said, “No issue… Zhou Shengzheng’s the director who got the male lead for his film emperor title… Saving Zhou Lily’s fine.”

Chu Zu hadn’t expected her status.

Stunned, he grinned.

“See, efforts are rewarded, everything echoes, right?”