A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 35: “I Will Look Forward to the Next Summer, Every Summer.”

Once things smoothed out, time flew by.

Zhou Lily hired professional lawyers to handle orphanage affairs, ensuring everything was legal and compliant.

Her river jump made the entertainment news, noting only that she was Zhou Shengzheng’s daughter, followed by reports on his Cannes failure and messy personal life.

Zhou Ji, fuming, came to the orphanage to vent to Chu Zu.

He cursed his dad, then the news platforms, entertainment reporters, and even his sister, forgetting he’d started defending her.

Chu Zu found the kid amusing, teasing with a guileless expression, “Did you run into a naked woman at home?”

Zhou Ji: “…”

The director overheard: “…”

Zhou Ji nearly cried, tearfully explaining to the stern-faced director.

“It’s not what you think… Director, believe me, I didn’t corrupt Brother Jiang…”

The System nearly lost it laughing.

Chu Zu signed an IOU with Zhou Lily’s lawyer, who was puzzled, new to such a task.

Orphanage operations were long-term, hard to quantify.

Zhou Lily planned a site visit, listing immediate needs, with longer-term plans to follow.

How to calculate a loan?

Monthly deductions?

Seeing the young man’s stubbornness, the lawyer, guessing the employer’s intent, wrote a token amount.

Chu Zu had no issue with the figure; he shouldn’t grasp specific sums.

Zhou Lily reviewed the IOU, telling the lawyer to drop a zero.

Zhou Ji saw it, wanting another zero off.

Zhou Lily told him to scram.

“Jiang Zu’s not a toddler. Too little, and he’ll sense something’s off!”

Zhou Ji backed down.

Chu Zu got a full checkup, mainly for his eyes.

His congenital iris coloboma, unusually positioned, affected vision and caused light sensitivity.

The doctor suggested iris repair surgery but, given his retake student status, advised waiting until after high school.

The surgery carried risks, needing further discussion.

For now, Chu Zu got filter glasses, new fitted clothes, and enrolled in a retake class.

Before school started, besides helping at the orphanage, he studied in his room.

“You’re still wrestling with that composite function problem…”

The System was baffled.

“Host, can’t you look to a bright future? Let it go.”

Chu Zu: “I’m heading back to the main timeline soon. Time to shine is running out. Don’t bug me.”

System: “…”

Convinced.

By late July, Sang Zhe arrived at the orphanage.

She stepped from a black sedan, in a plain T-shirt and jeans, wearing 400-500 yuan sneakers, pushing a suitcase.

Before entering, kids ran up, asking in childish voices, “Pretty sister, who’re you looking for?”

Often called pretty, Sang Zhe still shyly smiled, pulling a notebook from her bag, writing.

[I’m looking for Director Mom!]

The director was in the kitchen.

Sang Zhe, eyes on her toes, entered and saw Jiang Zu first.

She was startled.

When adopted, Jiang Zu was barely taller, dazed, only giggling when talking.

Now, he towered over her, a head taller as he approached, forcing her to look up.

His features sharpened, between boy and man, black-framed glasses framing curved eyes, lips smiling, shallow dimples youthful, softening maturity.

Like years ago, Jiang Zu gave Sang Zhe a solid hug.

She wrote: [You’re so tall!]

Jiang Zu nodded, “Mhm.”

[New glasses, look great!]

“Mhm.”

[I’m a bit nearsighted, but no glasses yet!]

“Mhm.”

[I brought stars I folded for you over the years, I’ll get them later!]

“Mhm.”

[I can teach you English, just passed IELTS!]

“Mhm.”

[Mom says I’m awesome. Curtis takes about 160 students yearly! They offer performance chances. After your exam, I’ll send tickets, no worries about flights!]

“You’re amazing.”

Sang Zhe, not seeing Jiang Zu in ages, had tons to say.

Writing was slow.

Her training teacher took a few students; she hesitated to chat with peers, their topics—fashion weeks, cultural trends, auction markets—foreign to her.

Even piano talk turned to famous pianists’ gossip.

She couldn’t join in.

Writing with Jiang Zu, she nearly filled a notebook.

When out of things to write, she didn’t want to stop, grinning, drawing rows of exclamation marks.

For each row, Jiang Zu said “Mhm” twice, both laughing endlessly.

Sang Zhe wanted to share it with Lu Lin too.

Before training, not wanting to disturb their studies, she only contacted the director.

But she heard Lu Lin left town, unsure why.

At lunch, the director joined them, and the table’s dishes were upgraded, richer.

The director served Sang Zhe soup: “Our orphanage got a donor.”

Sang Zhe blinked, glanced at Jiang Zu, then back, her smile brighter than blooming flowers.

That afternoon, Sang Zhe tuned the orphanage’s old piano.

Her 20-inch suitcase held clothes, Jiang Zu’s stars, and tuning tools.

Tuning hammer, mute, fork, and earphones—fully equipped.

“Sang Zhe’s a genius in this,” the System marveled.

“No electronic pitch meter, all by ear, fine-tuning flawless. A pro tuner couldn’t do better.”

Chu Zu: “You know pianos?”

System, sheepish: “I downloaded a ‘One-Minute Piano Master’ pack.”

It assured me, “Free, no viruses, don’t worry!”

Watching her bustle, Chu Zu said, “I don’t know pianos, can’t tell how genius they are. But she loves it—her eyes glow tuning.”

He spoke too soon.

Her eyes truly lit up when her fingers hit the keys.

For the kids’ ages and emotions, she played simple pieces.

From The Nutcracker to Kikujiro’s Summer, then Twinkle Twinkle Little Star Variations, kids sang along to familiar tunes.

Words couldn’t capture Sang Zhe then.

She carried vast emotion, meaningless, yet her silence spoke through her fingertips, filling the space.

Her notes sparkled, each turning into feeling, dusting listeners’ shoulders.

If forced to describe…

“Sang Zhe sparks a wakeful sensitivity,” Chu Zu said, listening. “I’m a bit stumped.”

System: “No need to be. Your talent’s not music. Writing’s creative, art too!”

Chu Zu: “Not that, I mean Sang Zhe.”

“Before meeting her, I thought a mute sixteen-year-old adopted was a horror story. But hearing her play, I got it wrong.”

“Her foster parents must be true artists, orthodox, would’ve helped her even without adoption.”

“Here’s the issue.”

The system hesitated.

This felt familiar.

Last time the host sensed a snag, he asked: How’s an entertainment guy so poor?

Tracing back revealed the male lead’s arc flaws.

Now he pointed at the female lead.

Though the “issue” wasn’t clear, the System dreaded it.

No, no, not that!

They were here to fix Jiang Zu, a side character.

His arc was fine, but the leads had bugs.

What was this?

The host was restrained, only aiming for positivity, doing good deeds.

This was unlucky, was it fair?!

It braced for the worst—if the female lead’s arc was flawed—

“Eighteen and this talented, she’d face envy but get plenty of positive feedback.”

“Her foster parents care, and I keep praising her.”

Each word shook the chick.

“Now she’s just shy. Without a major upheaval, how’d she get so insecure years later?”

“Host…”

Unsure of Chu Zu’s angle, it hinted, “You think Lu Lin’s the upheaval?”

Chu Zu: “?”

“I’m starting to think this male lead’s cursed.”

The system shivered, “You have bad luck with him. What if Sang Zhe’s hit by some uncontrollable mystic factor?”

Chu Zu: “…”

Chu Zu: “Our job has mysticism?”

“It does!” The system said. “Before you, I was unlucky, low ability, bad at surprises. They kept happening, and I couldn’t help the hosts much…”

It stalled, voice dropping.

“Maybe your bad luck’s my fault. I didn’t think enough, didn’t ask if you knew romance. Now with issues, I don’t know how to fix it…”

No immediate reply, the System felt it was right.

Its host was stellar, earning a rare S-grade first try, snagging author royalties.

Even against “Protagonist Correction,” “Dragon King Correction,” or “Villain Correction,” he was unmatched!

It should’ve prepped better, not like this.

Chu Zu, after a pause, said, “You feel you don’t deserve to team with me?”

The chick drooped: “Sorry…”

“Asking that, do you feel ashamed, thinking it’s all your fault?”

The chick nearly cried digital tears.

“If I say it’s not, you’d think I’m lying to comfort you?”

System: “You… wouldn’t admit it, right?! I can’t handle that. Comfort me… I’m scared of overheating, affecting you.”

“You’re a genius too,” Chu Zu sighed. “Thanks to you, I get it.”

System, tearless: “You’re too kind. A little comfort’s enough, you’re praising me.”

“I’m not comforting.”

Chu Zu truly understood.

“When you value someone too much, your eyes blind you. You miss your strengths, can’t find reasons you won’t be abandoned.”

He said, “Forget Sang Zhe. Honestly, you’re insecure now.”

The system mumbled, “I do mess up sometimes…”

“That’s lying to yourself.”

Chu Zu was patient and convincing it.

“We’re a house. A house’s value comes from location, size, layout, market… but no seller pitches load-bearing walls. Can a house stand without them?”

System: “…No.”

“I said from the start, we’re a team. I raise our ceiling, you hold our floor. You’re my walls—I’m not lying, trust me.”

The system's processing jammed, no words in its language bank.

It cursed its lack of culture, wishing it’d splurged on “Eloquence 100 Q&A.”

How to express two parts guilt, three parts touched, five parts ecstasy?

The chick sulked fast, bounced back faster, even grumbling it was illiterate.

Seeing it stabilize, Chu Zu returned to the topic.

“Didn’t ask earlier—what if I didn’t save Zhou Lily?”

Post-rescue, her background filled in.

The System checked the original text.

“Zhou Lily was mentioned as Zhou Shengzheng’s backdrop. Without you, prolonged submersion and debris inhalation would’ve caused ARDS, acute respiratory distress syndrome, with severe lung inflammation.”

“She survived but had to pause her directing career—wind and rain were too much. Zhou Ji went with her abroad for recovery, cutting ties with Zhou Shengzheng.”

“At forty-five, she made her debut film on complex sibling ties, sweeping three major festivals.”

“Before, she was just his late wife’s daughter, focusing on his scandals. After her sweep, he became her footnote.”

“He cast Lu Chulin partly because of her. At the audition, he asked Lu Chulin life’s most important day. He said, the day exams ended.”

“Zhou Shengzheng remembered two days: Zhou Ji’s birth, Zhou Lily’s jump.”

“Lu Chulin supported him later. The siblings never returned after leaving.”

Chu Zu thought long, silent.

So long the System thought it crashed, missing his words.

Sang Zhe finished Twinkle Twinkle Little Star Variations, kids clapping, shouting for more, “So good, Sister Sang, one more!”

Smiling, back straight, her pale fingers danced on keys.

She played Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer, “Ragtime King.”

Known from Chaplin’s silent films, even kids unfamiliar with them found joy in its playful tune.

“I’m touching romance’s threshold,” Chu Zu said mentally, clapping with others.

System, startled: “How’d you get there?”

“Not sure yet, don’t want to mislead. I’ll share after testing in the main timeline.”

System: “Oh, oh, oh! When are you heading back?”

Chu Zu: “Soon.”

Sang Zhe finished, the kids' pleas ignored—the director waited.

Orphanage kids entered at different times, with varied education.

Previously, they joined nearby schools, often struggling to keep up.

Zhou Lily’s team offered solutions.

She hired preschool educators for thrice-weekly tutoring, tailored by age.

The kids reluctantly left with the director.

Sang Zhe hopped off the piano bench, running to Chu Zu.

They went to the orphanage rooftop.

Old AC units, water bottles, and cardboard littered it.

Near the edge was their old secret base.

“Their” meaning Sang Zhe, Jiang Zu, Lu Lin.

Years empty, it was dusty, the dividing line with recyclables overtaken.

Sang Zhe deftly flattened stray bottles, unbothered by dirt, waving to Chu Zu.

They sat in the dust.

The orphanage wasn’t tall, the rooftop view plain—abandoned houses around, too costly to demolish, left vacant, blocking sights.

But Sang Zhe loved this base.

At thirteen, they saw news of a northern hemisphere meteor shower.

Lu Lin sneaked to the teacher’s office, spinning a globe to check their hemisphere, caught without finding the orphanage.

Jiang Zu, brilliantly naive, said Earth was round, meteors would circle to them.

Lu Lin might not have believed, but Sang Zhe did.

Counting days, she wrote daily, hoping Lu Lin and Jiang Zu would invite her.

On the news day, she fell asleep.

Waking, she was on Jiang Zu’s back, Lu Lin at the stairs’ top, whispering like a thief, “Director says no roof at night. We sneak.”

For a while, they went up at night.

If Sang Zhe dozed, Jiang Zu carried her, but even when photos showed meteors, they saw none.

Sang Zhe was disappointed, but summer passed fast.

No meteors, yet they sometimes sneaked up.

Lacking danger awareness, they sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the edge, not seeing a cliff, the air clean, sometimes spotting the city center.

Every orphanage kid yearned for it.

Its lights shone, a paradise built on light, flowing brighter than TV meteors.

Living there years later, Sang Zhe learned paradise was concrete boxes stuffed with people.

They were busy, unsure why, filing out at set times, fleeing before night.

She missed the orphanage.

Missed summer nights with her friends, watching for meteors that never came.

Now, summer is ending.

She couldn’t find Lu Lin, only Jiang Zu beside her.

High winds brought back memories.

Sang Zhe opened her notebook, writing.

[I asked Director Mom where Lu Lin went. She said he’s chasing his future.]

Looking up, she saw Jiang Zu purse his lips, understanding instantly.

She read faces well; he couldn’t hide feelings.

Even speaking, he stammered.

“Lu Lin… he just went out. Director Mom wants us all to go out… I will too… and you…”

Sang Zhe listened, writing.

[What future’s worth abandoning our summer?]

Usually shyly smiling or awkward like Jiang Zu, she excelled at expressing through piano, but some words needed clarity, bluntness.

No exclamation marks, each word pressed hard.

She knew chasing answers led nowhere.

The director cared for all kids, loved Jiang Zu, Sang Zhe, and once Lu Lin.

Now hurt too, adults were slyer, comforting themselves, forgetting what fizzled out.

Jiang Zu didn’t think Lu Lin was wrong, just upset he left during the orphanage’s struggles.

His discontent lacked force, always had, strongest when saying thank you or sorry.

[A-Zu, Lu Lin shouldn’t treat you like that.]

[You’re not dumb, just slower to get smart. When you understand this summer, you’ll be sadder than now.]

[I hope you remember more than a wasted summer. A-Zu, if that day comes, find me.]

[Wherever I am, abroad or elsewhere, keep my number. You can always reach me.]

Finished, she turned, holding the notebook up.

Lately, only Zhou Ji mentioned Lu Lin, cursing occasionally.

Others acted like he vanished, never existed.

Only Sang Zhe kept bringing him up, unlike the director.

First hopeful, then puzzled by his departure, now writing, Lu Lin shouldn’t treat you like that.

Jiang Zu, slow to react, unused to this Sang Zhe, turned his head.

She persisted, standing where his head turned, holding the notebook, her usually soft eyes fixed stubbornly.

After a few rounds, Jiang Zu gave in, “Okay.”

He added, “I still don’t think I’ll be sad then.”

“Summer’s just summer. I didn’t care much for meteors, but every night waiting, I was happy.”

“Not just Lu Lin, but Director Mom who cared, people who helped, and you who think I’m smart.”

Sang Zhe lowered the notebook, hearing his tone lighten.

With filter glasses, he feared light less.

Thinner lenses made his eyes clear as marbles, sparkling in the sunset.

He was fresh, clean, a soft fairy tale on cotton.

“I love summer. I’ll look forward to next summer, every summer.”

From the rooftop, Sang Zhe pulled him back to the piano.

No kids, no director, the empty room, her first big stage, her friend the sole audience, close, reachable despite years apart.

She played Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No.1.

It evoked those meteor-waiting nights.

No stars fell, they twinkled quietly, landing in eager eyes.

Dry breezes brushed their cheeks, waiting in brilliance.

It didn’t matter if meteors never came; what they needed to see, they saw.

The people they wanted stayed.

Summers without meteors lingered, yet passed fleetingly.

My friend, if you await such summers, every summer is the best.

I can’t speak, my words can’t hold all thoughts.

You won’t understand now, but one day, your strength won’t just be thank yous and sorrys.

—It’s okay, just know, if you need, I’ll play for you every summer.

*

With time nearing, Sang Zhe prepared to study abroad, the orphanage stabilizing.

Chu Zu never solved that killer math problem.

His excuse to the System: “Not giving up, time’s short, my brain can’t handle backtracking, so I let it go. Get it?”

The system deleted months-old answers: “Mhm, I get it, don’t stress.”

Chu Zu: “You don’t get it.”

The system indulged, “Mhm, I don’t need to, that’s fine too.”

After confirming no gaps, Chu Zu added settings, ending the backtrack.

Everything reset to the start.

The System warned that long backtracking meant feeling awful after.

Chu Zu adapted fast, prepared, lying flat the moment consciousness returned, mind blank, thinking nothing.

In Neon Crown, fainting tied to memory override.

This was longer, but less severe.

After half an hour, he could open his eyes.

Slowly sitting up from the floor.

The familiar-unfamiliar one-bedroom apartment was small but improved.

More furnishings, gray walls now white, a wooden bookshelf with books, DVDs, game discs.

Checking, some shelves had labels.

Books: [Sang Zhe’s Storage].

DVDs: [Lily Zhou’s Property].

Game discs, no surprise: [Zhou Ji’s Exclusive], bold and wild.

Unlabeled ones were Jiang Zu’s.

System, slightly angry: “Who took the fridge’s pre-made meals!”

Chu Zu: “…”

Chu Zu: “Close call, I didn’t even know I lost a fridge of expired meals.”

The system couldn’t stand the host losing anything.

What he didn’t have, he must; what he had, he couldn’t lose!

Not even expired meals!

While Chu Zu surveyed, the System checked the updated background.

Before ending backtracking, Chu Zu added settings.

[Jiang Zu will study rehabilitation therapy.]

[After graduation, Jiang Zu will work in aging communities, rotating through nursing homes and service centers, regularly helping at the orphanage.]

[Jiang Zu will repay debts monthly, using remaining wages to buy things for elderly and kids. He’ll be rich but won’t save, nor need to.]

“You retook a year, got into a second-tier college, and things followed your settings.”

“But Zhou Shengzheng won an award, pissing off Zhou Lily. She’s clashing with him, taking any role, assisting on sets, saving for a big film to show up her damn dad.”

“She booked you as her lead years ago. You agreed, but the script’s still in progress.”

Ignoring the System’s biased rant, Chu Zu asked the key question.

“Have I started acting lessons?”

System: “…”

It knew! He’d obsess over this!

“Zhou Lily got you a teacher early, but you’ve been too busy with elderly and kids.”

The system sighed, “Your major helps people, but it’s time-consuming. Work leaves you drained, and emergency calls hit at midnight.”

Chu Zu: “No big deal. I’m swamped, but I’ve got you, right?”

The System lit up at expectations, data flowing triple-speed.

“Right! Watch me, I’ll plan it perfectly, and be the world’s best time manager!”

“These settings weren’t just for helping others. From our job’s angle, they’re useful.”

System: “Job angle…”

“In the main text, I’m a chatterbox who can’t shut up. I thought long—Sang Zhe’s right, I’m just slower, not blind to cues.”

Chu Zu said, “Ignoring my IQ, when would someone ignore adult subtext, spelling everything out?”

System’s triple-speed data clicked.

“When dealing with stubborn elders and clueless kids!”

It marveled, “Right, the director taught you to speak plainly. As a caregiver volunteer for years, you’d need to be clear—they won’t listen otherwise. You’d get used to it!”

Mid-marvel, a phone on the desk pinged with a message.

Chu Zu grabbed it—Zhou Lily’s text.

[No packing, I got people. Zhou Ji’s on his way to get you.]

Chu Zu: “Check the plot—can you access it?”

The system didn’t reply instantly; it couldn’t see non-main-text events happening or upcoming, only check.

“I can.”

It said, “Tonight’s a charity gala. Zhou Lily invited you as her plus-one. Sang Zhe’s there as a rising pianist, so it’s in the main text!”

Checking, System muttered, “Zhou Lily has Zhou Ji… why a plus-one…”

Chu Zu didn’t dig, seeing many reasons.

By now, Zhou Lily’s script had been years in the making.

Even if unfinished, she’d soon parade her lead.

Charity galas were investor magnets.

Chu Zu dashed to the bathroom, tidying up before Zhou Ji arrived.

“Plan my time well. No surprises, I’ll start acting lessons soon.”

System, thrilled: “Yes, yes, yes!”