A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 36: “Is This How People Talk Nowadays?”

The doorbell rang, and Chu Zu opened the door, a waft of cologne-scented air drifting in.

Zhou Ji stood at the entrance, dressed in a suit, looking far different from his fifteen-year-old self, his face less expressive, almost lifeless.

Seeing Chu Zu, he grinned, concerned in his eyes: “Why so pale, Brother Jiang? Feeling sick?”

“I rested a bit, just woke up,” Chu Zu replied, eyes curving.

While tidying in the bathroom, he’d noticed his pallor, not a health issue.

Just backtracking aftermath, impossible to hide.

Still, he looked better than at the start—clean, black hair neatly trimmed.

He hadn’t chosen eye surgery, switching to lighter aluminum-framed glasses with thinner lenses, clearly showing his pupils.

Clearly, Jiang Zu no longer cared about his “surface” abnormality.

“Oh, oh, oh.”

Zhou Ji slipped in expertly, kicked off his shoes, and handed over a suit in a dust bag.

He didn’t say much, slumping onto a chair, furiously tapping his phone, waiting.

As Chu Zu changed, the System relayed Zhou Ji’s recent years.

Zhou Ji was now a CEO—not domineering, just flashy.

He graduated from a top university in marketing, then paid for an Ivy League EMBA.

Post-graduation, he strong-armed a huge sum from his dad, buying a failing entertainment company, claiming he wanted to taste rich-kid failure before the family fell.

“For Zhou Lily, right?”

The clothes fit perfectly—Zhou Ji must’ve gotten his measurements.

The shirt and black suit were crisp, easy to wear.

Chu Zu said, “Zhou Lily’s been a stand-in director, cleaning up messes. It’s easy to get hate, and she’s cautious.”

“Zhou Ji put her in his company, so she doesn’t worry about corporate backlash, and he can snap back if she’s targeted.”

“Right,” System said. “He’s done it a few times.”

It added, “You’re doing hate-prone stand-in work too. I should learn from Zhou Ji.”

Zhou Ji stayed hands-off as CEO, hiring reliable people to run things, content being Zhou Lily’s lackey.

This stunned those expecting bold moves.

The System knew this because Jiang Zu was under their company.

A regular second-tier grad, Jiang Zu couldn’t land high-paying jobs.

He tried public nursing homes but was blocked by health requirements—his eyes a dealbreaker—ending up at small private facilities.

Wages came, but small private homes had management flaws.

Limited by tenure and role, he didn’t get full benefits.

Zhou Ji wanted to buy the home, ensure employee rights, splurge, and cement his deadbeat rich-kid rep.

It sounded fun.

But his funds couldn’t handle it.

After buying the entertainment company, Zhou Shengzheng chewed him out.

The family formed a cursing loop.

Zhou Lily cursed and kicked Zhou Ji but couldn’t stand their dad raging at him, sparking three-way battles.

They settled, but Zhou Shengzheng swore no more money.

Starve outside for all he cared.

Zhou Ji had few spending needs—a 398-yuan game disc lasted months—but kept funds for Zhou Lily.

In case a lousy investor bailed, he’d cover.

So he put Jiang Zu on payroll, covering his benefits.

“He didn’t tell you. Asked for your ID and bank info, you gave it. You only knew from bank alerts.”

“Try to send money back, he dodges you for two weeks.”

“This kid’s living large.”

Chu Zu buttoned the suit, calling, “I’m ready—”

Zhou Ji yawned, pocketing his phone, standing: “Got it!”

He drove the Porsche Zhou Lily “stole” from Zhou Shengzheng, engine running, AC on.

Seated, Zhou Ji didn’t drive right away, irritably sending a flurry of messages, tossing the phone to the back.

“Brother Jiang, my sis brought you because she landed big funding for that dream project from years ago.”

Zhou Ji talked while driving.

“It’s mostly set, just needs promo clearance.”

Chu Zu should’ve congratulated, but Zhou Ji’s expression was off: “Good news, why aren’t you happy?”

“That obvious?”

Zhou Ji frowned, a hint of the cold look from earlier returning.

“Deal’s done, investor paid fast, but their agent’s daughter is a pain, wanting top billing as producer.”

His face darkened, eyes shadowed.

“That’s my sis’s spot. No stealing. If we win Best Picture, who holds the trophy, speaks? She’s dreaming. I shut her down, but she’s meddling in prep, shoving people in, trying to swap the lead, making a mess.”

Forget Jiang Zu, Chu Zu didn’t get the industry.

When Zhou Ji said the project was set, the System searched for a free “One-Minute Entertainment Insider” pack.

Sadly, none fit.

The few found had low downloads, other systems warning of Trojans.

The system didn’t dare download, giving up.

Zhou Ji gripped the wheel, glancing at Jiang Zu’s unblinking eyes, forcing himself to calm, regulating breathing and heartbeat.

He reined in his frustration, turning playful.

“Bro, my sis chewed me out recently. The film’s under our company—executive producer’s fair, right? But she said I’m hogging the latrine without shitting.”

“She’s getting cruder. Can’t she curse me with class?”

Chu Zu had a reply: “It’s a bit vulgar.”

Zhou Ji: “Right! So I gotta drop a big one to show her.”

“You’re vulgar too,” Chu Zu said.

“I don’t get why you always bicker. I’ve mentioned it, but you don’t care…”

Zhou Ji was used to Jiang Zu’s non-whiny nagging, always speaking his mind.

He cut in, “Hey, hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m a top grad, so I work for her. She’s not shy, dumping tons on me. Lately, I’ve been casting.”

Outside Zhou Lily and Zhou Shengzheng, Zhou Ji held it together.

Young, he played the elite heir well.

Trailing Zhou Lily, he disdained similar-rich peers, lost undergrad ties, and grad school friends were abroad, leaving no one to vent to.

With Chu Zu, Zhou Ji’s mouth ran like firecrackers.

“Female roles were easy. That meddling chick targeted male roles. The casting director showed me the list—my heart sank.”

“This dog-eat-dog circle, pre-fame male stars, are uniquely ugly. A couple shows later, with some fame, they edit themselves identical. The list gave me face-blindness.”

“I thought, no way, turn this in, my sis’ll kill me. So I went online, checked their pages. Forget over-edited pics, their absurd vibes blew me away.”

“Eyes half-open, mouths agape—called ‘fragile.’ Rugged features—fans say ‘mixed-race charm.’ Deadpan faces—‘a face with a story.’ They call Dior999-lipped guys ‘wifey, baby.’ Fandom scared me pissless, so I fled Weibo.”

“My takeaway: if someone praises a female star’s looks, it’s real. Male stars? Dock five points, then check.”

Chu Zu: “…”

System: “…”

Good thing Zhou Ji controlled his mouth, or he’d be bagged and dumped in a river.

Speechless, but Chu Zu could respond.

…

“What’s Dior999?” Jiang Zu asked.

Zhou Ji: “Lipstick shade. My sis loves it.”

“It must look nice. Why’d it scare you?”

“…”

Zhou Ji realized his heartfelt rant was half-lost on Jiang Zu.

Not about smarts.

Jiang Zu dealt with elders and kids; the director didn’t wear makeup, Zhou Lily wouldn’t discuss shades.

More crucially, Zhou Ji realized—

Jiang Zu, soon dragged into the industry, knew nothing about it.

Normal people might be thrilled or anxious about getting a lead role offer, case by case.

Jiang Zu agreed instantly, then worried he’d never act, fearing he’d burden Zhou Lily.

Zhou Lily: Could it be worse than my deadbeat brother?

If not, it’s not a burden.

Back then, Zhou Ji got called to school for fighting, Zhou Lily facing veiled teacher criticism.

Hearing it was over a classmate mocking his closeness to a “dumb guy,” she didn’t listen, stood, left in heels, asking Zhou Ji about the fight.

Fresh from backing him, Zhou Ji couldn’t argue.

Later, he thought he should’ve stopped her.

He always knew Zhou Lily spotted something in Jiang Zu.

Not romantic—she treated love as a game, one not enough, two barely, three thrilling.

She sensed a quality in Jiang Zu.

Zhou Ji’s view hadn’t changed: artists were nuts, his dad one, his sister too.

Their world-exploring ways were beyond commoners like him.

Normal people raised alarms at surprises, avoiding worse outcomes.

Not crazies—they saw breakthroughs, crowbars to smash small-world rules.

Zhou Ji feared Zhou Lily using Jiang Zu as her crowbar.

“Brother Jiang, if my sis seems off, tell me.”

Zhou Ji said, “I’m kinda her boss now. If we clash, she won’t hit as hard.”

Jiang Zu’s brow furrowed.

Zhou Ji thought, Uh-oh.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or serious.”

Jiang Zu said, “Is your sister in trouble? Or, since you don’t want to explain why you’re moody, you’re just filling time?”

“I can’t parse this.”

His voice was gentle, slow, and patient, but it shook Zhou Ji.

“I don’t get your terms either. Absurd vibes—what’s that? …Is this how people talk nowadays?”

He sounded unsure.

“But your sister doesn’t talk to me like that.”

Zhou Lily really didn’t.

She was crude, handsy, swore often, even around Jiang Zu.

But she avoided trendy terms.

She found such shorthand lazy.

Maybe an artist’s habit—she didn’t care about much, but had a purist streak in expression.

Jiang Zu’s unfamiliarity came from his environment and the terms’ sharpness.

Zhou Ji had to reflect.

Jiang Zu didn’t harshly categorize people.

Years of Zhou Lily’s efforts tempered his “everyone’s good” bias, but he held firm.

He easily gave “good person” cards, but even bad ones were just “not that good.”

He’d said, “If I don’t understand, it just means they’re complex.”

“Praising is easy—they’re happy briefly. Hurting is easy too—they remember long, can’t forget. I don’t want my partial view to negate someone’s entirety.”

“…Sorry.”

Zhou Ji apologized sincerely.

He wasn’t polite usually… but kinda feared Jiang Zu’s anger.

Though Jiang Zu never seemed mad.

“I mean, Zhou Lily’s pretty bad. You can’t handle her, nor can I, but I’ll help figure it out.”

He’d said this for years. Jiang Zu, like always, smiled.

But now he didn’t argue, saying, “I know, thanks, Zhou Ji.”

…

The System reflected too.

The host didn’t seem fond of trendy terms.

It had used some.

No keyword, so logs didn’t show.

But it did.

The host never called it out but rarely responded.

Thinking, it asked outright.

“You don’t like internet slang?”

Zhou Ji followed navigation, veering remote.

Chu Zu calculated travel, gala end time, and if he’d sleep well.

Backtracking’s aftermath wasn’t as bad as last time but still lingered.

Last time, he was down for three days, forced awake by the System for work.

Now, no rest time, brain fatigue screaming for a break.

When the System asked, Chu Zu was half-dozing by the window.

“Not disliked, they’re useful sometimes.”

He said, “But as a writer, I’m wary of personal or aggressive new terms. They oversimplify complex things, using intense emotions to mask their social context… I’m not used to it.”

System: “They spread because people accept them, right?”

“Then why doesn’t Zhou Lily use them?”

“…”

“Because she’s got standards.”

Chu Zu said, “She’s interesting. I felt it when she fought Zhou Shengzheng at the hospital.”

System scoured logs, finding nothing “interesting” beyond her wig-snatching quip.

“When you copy-paste others’ contextual terms, you forget how to express yourself.”

“Expression is logic. Copying terms, you get lazy examining events, left with nothing but parroting, even emotions copied.”

Chu Zu, dizzy, spoke lazily in his mind.

“Zhou Lily won’t let herself be speechless. She insists on independent scrutiny, even cursing with her own flair, like fennel beans’ fennel.”

System, thoughtful: “Seems so…”

It logged, “I’m a writer’s system, gotta be ambitious, interesting!”

Deleting “Forum Slang 100,” it heard Chu Zu mutter.

“Actually, Zhou Ji’s chattier than me, all complaints. I’m dizzy, I wanted him to hush.”

System: “…”

System: “Got it.”

*

The charity gala was at a suburban manor, through a forest park, ten minutes to see faint lights.

Without navigation, you’d get lost in the park.

The manor prized naturalness, flaking limestone pillars lining the path, ivy climbing to their tops.

It looked decayed, revived by bright lights.

The black iron gate stood open, a young man in a black server’s outfit waiting.

Zhou Ji passed the invitation through the window. The man glanced at it casually, saying, “Inside, please. Valet’s nearby.”

Smooth as water.

Quiet the whole drive, Zhou Ji whispered before stepping out, “Brother Jiang, besides folks we know, just smile if others talk. I’m worried they brought unruly types.”

Jiang Zu paused mid-exit.

Before speaking, Zhou Ji added, “Not you. I’ve never seen anyone more proper.”

Jiang Zu tried again, but Zhou Ji cut in, “Don’t stress. I’m watching. I’m known for shutting people down, and my sis is prickly—no trouble.”

Seeing he’d be interrupted, Jiang Zu pulled out his phone, showing Zhou Lily’s text.

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

Zhou Ji froze.

A jarring message, especially: I got people.

Zhou Lily had hired a stylist.

Jiang Zu remembered the text, but Zhou Ji, nervous, worried Jiang Zu might lump him with “not that good.”

He forgot half of Zhou Lily’s instructions!!!

Tonight wasn’t just investors and artists.

Rich, influential, or both, lined up like a menu.

Zhou Lily wanted Jiang Zu to debut as her lead—his face was striking, unique.

Investors, seeing him after the script, would get why she insisted, dropping swap ideas.

His looks were flawless, perfect fit.

Acting could be overlooked—investors didn’t sweat small stuff, and no one’d demand an on-spot performance.

That’d be idiotic.

Zhou Ji knew her intent, but now…

His gaze slid from the glowing phone to Jiang Zu’s face.

Still handsome, even to a guy—brows distinct, eyes clear, perfectly proportioned.

Just tired, breathing weary.

Zhou Ji recalled, on the drive, without eye contact, Jiang Zu either rested or zoned out.

Probably another tough elder, sleepless for days.

He’d polluted Jiang Zu’s ears with terms he didn’t like, yet Jiang Zu listened, seriously asking about Zhou Lily.

Oh, and made him realize why his sister got mad at his chatter.

“…Let’s go back, rest. My sis can handle it.”

Zhou Ji wanted to send him home.

Jiang Zu wouldn’t think Zhou Ji found him embarrassing—only other reasons.

“My face is still bad?”

Zhou Ji, dramatic: “Shockingly bad.”

Jiang Zu nodded, pocketed the phone, and slapped both cheeks with a loud “pa.”

Zhou Ji froze.

Jiang Zu rubbed his face, steadied his glasses, blinked, looking at stunned Zhou Ji: “Now, better color?”

He’d slapped his face redder, lips upturned, eyes like years ago at the orphanage, peeking from the bunk, telling him not to cry.

“They taught me at work,” he said proudly.

“Can’t let elders see weakness, illness. If you’re unwell, take leave. If you can’t leave, hold on, don’t look too pale.”

Zhou Ji banged his forehead on the wheel, honking loudly.

“Me and my sis aren’t human…” he groaned.

The valet waited ages.

He wondered—guests were rich or elite, some aloof, but most hurried in, poised.

No one wanted to be late; every early second counted.

This Porsche parked, then nothing.

They seemed to talk, one slapped himself, the other banged the wheel?

The wheel-banger even slapped himself too!

The passenger tried to stop him, hit the wheel, another jarring honk!

The valet’s supervisor radioed, asking if there was a dispute, had he intervened.

He replied, “Not a dispute. Two guests slapped themselves, and accidentally hit the horn.”

Supervisor: “…That’s a dispute.”

As he explained, the door opened.

Zhou Ji handed the keys, rushing to Jiang Zu’s side, all gloom gone.

He fussed, fixing Jiang Zu’s hair, adjusting his perfect tie.

Practically clinging to him.

Jiang Zu pushed him off: “I’m just tired, won’t faint. Don’t crowd.”

“Sure, Brother Jiang!”

Saying so, Zhou Ji didn’t let go.

Great, after rolling in this circle, hanging with Brother Jiang cleansed his soul.

The manor’s main hall was elegant, not gaudy, more an European art gallery than a banquet.

The domed ceiling glowed warm gold, painted with Giovanni Battista Tiepolo’s The Glory of Venice.

The original, in Germany’s Würzburg Residence, was famed for light and motion.

The gala’s setup mimicked its dreamlike vibe, the open space steeped in 18th-century charm.

Jiang Zu’s eyes couldn’t take it in, mindful of Zhou Ji’s “unruly people,” keeping his gaze straight, making Zhou Ji want to say, Bro, look.

Whatever catches your eye, I’ll show you.

After these replicas, we’ll see the real stuff.

Brother Jiang wants to look, he looks! Anyone whispering behind, he’d physically shut them up!

With different moods, they met Zhou Lily at the hall’s edge.

One glance, Zhou Ji knew trouble brewed.

Sure enough, she stomped over, heels sparking.

Zhou Lily wore makeup, brows and eyes sharper, liner lengthening her gaze, pale skin, red lips—Dior999, as Zhou Ji mentioned.

No one’d call this overpowering woman “wifey, baby”—too terrifying.

Stopping, still shorter than Jiang Zu, she raised a brow, black velvet-gloved arms crossed, red lips parting.

“What, Zhou Ji, you and Jiang Zu brawled in the car, scared off his stylist?”

Zhou Ji: “…”

Jiang Zu quickly clarified, “We didn’t fight.”

Zhou Lily nodded, firing at Zhou Ji, “So the stylist you slapped twice each ruined Jiang Zu’s look?”

Jiang Zu: “…”

“Arm out,” Zhou Lily said.

Zhou Ji obeyed instinctively, swatted back: “You, Jiang Zu.”

Ignoring Zhou Ji and the styling issue, she linked arms with Jiang Zu, striding in like a brash boss with her long-hidden naive brother entering high society.

The real naive brother exhaled, stepping into the true arena of fame and fortune.

Zhou Ji hadn’t seen Zhou Lily this on-guard in ages.

As if tonight… something big would happen.