NOVEL WEB Ch. 38
Chapter 38: “I’ll Give You My Positivity and Cheer, You Give Me Your Anger and Selfishness.”
Chu Zu had never faced such childish provocation.
Jiang Zu’s childhood discrimination didn’t count—kids’ exclusion was thoughtless, but an adult saying this.
On some level, Chu Zu felt the intended insult.
He pondered; Jiang Zu now should understand “hugging thighs.”
But Jiang Zu wouldn’t engage.
Malice toward him was no big deal; Zhou Lily’s instructions mattered more.
She told him to stay put, smile at talkers.
Sister Lily had her reasons.
If Jiang Zu’s brain couldn’t grasp them, he’d follow, no overthinking.
So, Chu Zu calmly turned back to the stunning Sang Zhe on stage.
One ignore could be deafness, two impolite, three a slap in the face.
At least, the troublemaker seemed to think so.
As a minor entertainment figure facing an uninitiated one, Chu Zu’s reaction choked him.
He didn’t mind words being ignored, but Chu Zu’s “aloof” attitude burned into his eyes.
During Sang Zhe’s performance, the room was quiet, the unnamed man whispering his nonsense through gritted teeth.
Seeing no response, his eyes darted, unhurried, leaning back.
The song ended, applause thundered.
He leaned to Chu Zu’s ear, “Heard you’re a fool. Is it true that Director Zhou likes fools?”
Chu Zu smiled.
Good thing the System was off with the author, or it’d scream sexual harassment.
Imagining the angry chick, Chu Zu’s smile was genuine.
“I’m not a fool,” he stressed.
“Sister Lily says those calling others fools are fools. Zhou Ji agrees.”
Unnamed man: “So both siblings like fools, and you’re okay with that?”
Chu Zu wanted to laugh, thanks to the imagined chick.
The man tried hard, almost pitifully, rapping in the applause, “If you want to latch onto Teacher Sang Zhe, you’ll need effort.”
“I heard she doesn’t mingle, family’s strict, avoids industry folks, and is a loner. Tons of has-beens try her connections, not as easy as the Zhou siblings—you staring at me for what? I’m concerned.”
Chu Zu: “Does Sang Zhe have no other friends?”
“Wow, no ‘Teacher’? Rude.”
“Does Teacher Sang Zhe have no other friends?”
“Polite now, but sounds like cursing. Why’re you either rude or cursing?”
Sang Zhe played one piece, bowed, and exited.
With her, the performance-watchers left.
As non-socializers dispersed, the gala grew noisy.
The man’s words multiplied.
Post-Sang Zhe, Chu Zu barely listened, in one ear, out the other.
It was repetitive.
Clearly, the man knew his mental limits, sticking to simple jabs.
He got more animated, like charging a game skill, flashy moves, but the boss’s health bar didn’t budge.
Almost pitiable.
Zhou Lily wasn’t back; Chu Zu endured his performance, engaging on keywords to keep things lively.
Unexpectedly, as he half-responded, a white figure glided through stares to his side.
[A-Zu—!]
A notebook dropped from above, held before Chu Zu, pale fingers gripping its sides.
He spun, Sang Zhe’s curved, smiling eyes closed.
He grinned, eyes lost, far sincerer, “You played better than ever, Teacher Sang Zhe!”
Others recognized her, exchanging glances.
Seeing no intent to mingle, a gentleman called a server for a chair.
Against protocol, but recognizing Sang Zhe’s status, the server complied, adding a chair and cutlery in seconds, adjusting the table.
As Sang Zhe sat, she wrote.
[Why call me Teacher!]
[Oh, I saw a meteor on tour, made a wish!]
[If you’d come, we could’ve wished together!]
[But it’s fine, I wished for you. Health, safety!]
Still loving exclamation marks.
In front of her long-unseen friend, Sang Zhe was cloudless.
Chu Zu read, answering seriously, “Next time, I’ll take leave, arrange work, join you.”
Unnamed man: “…”
I heard she doesn’t mingle, strict family, avoids industry folks, and is a loner.
His words slapped him twice, twisting his face, struggling to hide it.
His acting was worse than Chu Zu’s weak portrayal, face green, veins throbbing.
Chu Zu’s sidelong glance felt he should react.
“You okay?”
He told Sang Zhe to wait, turning to the man, concerned.
“You look bad, lips redder than normal, not anemia… Any medical history? I’m worried about oxygen shortage… No asthma or heart issues, sir?”
The man looked ready to faint.
Sang Zhe, unaware, waited quietly, watching Chu Zu fuss over him.
The table stared.
The man, colorless, gritted out, “I’m… fine…”
“Don’t push it. I’ve seen many claim they’re fine, hiding conditions to avoid embarrassment. That’s bad. Tell me if you feel off, I can help.”
It wasn’t over—Zhou Ji arrived.
He greeted Sang Zhe, stood behind Chu Zu, “Making new friends, Brother Jiang? Who’s this?”
Chu Zu: “I don’t know, he didn’t introduce himself.”
Zhou Ji: “No intro for a friend? Nervous, forgot?”
Chu Zu: “Maybe.”
Worried, “He seems shy, talks less with people, doesn’t answer. If unwell, he should rest—health first.”
Zhou Ji snorted.
The man clenched his fists, breathed deep, then smiled.
“President Zhou, doing well?”
“You want to be friends too? Don’t be nervous, buddy, I’m doing great, thanks for asking.”
“Good to hear.”
Another deep breath, “Heard you dodge Sister Li. Things have been rough lately. Thought, she’s so nice, any misunderstanding’s a shame.”
Zhou Ji’s smile faded, “Li Qiya sent you to ‘make friends’?”
System gone, Chu Zu couldn’t ask who Li Qiya was.
But he sensed something off, a subtle eeriness.
Zhou Ji wasn’t bad-tempered, always grinning, surface work solid, no major slip-ups, propping up his sister.
Yet this name erased his composure.
Recalling an earlier talk, only one person soured on Zhou Ji lately.
The woman vying for Zhou Lily’s producer spot, causing trouble.
The man, sweating, pressed on, “Me, know Sister Li? Just admire her. Not like Jiang Zu, a brain-damaged orphan climbing the Zhou siblings, cozy with Teacher Sang Zhe. Impressive…”
“Director Zhou’s impressive too, unproven yet favored by Boss Li… Some think Sister Li has issues with her, there must be a misunderstanding. Boss Li backs her, so Sister Li would… appreciate her.”
His voice shook, but he finished, like reciting lines.
Awful acting, but his shade was enough to sting his target.
Chu Zu wanted to drag Zhou Ji away.
Zhou Ji couldn’t stand attacks on Zhou Lily, especially hints of her using connections, disdained by the investor’s daughter.
He wouldn’t take it.
Too late—when “brain-damaged” was said, Zhou Ji’s eyes darkened, chest heaving, barely containing pent-up rage.
As predicted, the man’s words ended, Zhou Ji grabbed his collar, chair crashing on carpet, dishes clinking sharply.
He yanked the pale man up.
His move startled Sang Zhe, already the table’s focus, now more so.
Guests had varied reactions—stifling laughs at Chu Zu’s concern, turning aside for decorum as the man flopped.
They saw Zhou Ji’s action.
Now, half the gala stared, silence broken only by ignored soft music.
Zhou Ji didn’t notice.
The words pierced his heart, piled on recent frustrations, blinding him.
Chu Zu grabbed his arm—no fighting here, absolutely not!
Zhou Lily’s arrival snapped Zhou Ji back.
She rushed, heels nearly piercing the carpet, minding public etiquette, saying coldly, “Zhou Ji.”
He froze; Chu Zu pulled him back.
The pale man, still acting, stumbled, hitting the fallen chair.
“Follow me.” Zhou Lily glared, turning away.
Zhou Ji, knowing his mistake, hurried after.
Chu Zu helped the man up.
First time closely seeing his face, expression unchanged, but red slit pupils through glasses unnerved, making him tremble.
Releasing him, Chu Zu told Sang Zhe quickly, “Sorry, I need to check on Sister Lily and Zhou Ji. Really sorry, you came to me, I should’ve stayed.”
Sang Zhe shook her head, knowing writing was slow, pushing him to go, waving.
Chu Zu chased, sliding into the backseat as Zhou Lily floored the Panamera’s pedal.
The door barely closed, the engine roared, flagship performance maxed instantly.
The black car surged, Zhou Lily’s fierce driving letting cold night wind slice through like a blade.
Barely shutting the door, Chu Zu saw her eyes in the rearview.
Furious, despairing eyes.
*
Talks were set at Zhou Lily’s villa, pried from Zhou Shengzheng.
The second-floor pool held water, suggesting regular use.
“Li Qiya’s Old Li’s only daughter, late-born, can spit at her heir brothers without trouble. Get it?”
Zhou Lily was livid, half-yelling, half-removing heels, her tight black gown making squatting hard, nearly falling.
Jiang Zu caught her.
Heels in hand, she held back from smashing Zhou Ji’s head.
Pushing Jiang Zu away, she paced barefoot by the pool, lit only by streetlights, water reflecting her inner fire.
“Li Qiya’s not like me, left to die without a dad’s care. You give her attitude, fine, but you’d touch her guy? Who gave you the guts, Zhou Ji?!”
“I didn’t mean to… just warn him…”.
Zhou Ji’s head hung low.
“Everyone thought you would, so you would. Does your intent matter?”
“Sorry, it’s my fault…” Jiang Zu said truthfully.
“Zhou Ji thought he was—”
“I don’t care about the process!”.
Zhou Lily’s voice neared a scream.
“I don’t give a damn about details. That idiot influencer targeted you, Sang Zhe showed up, Zhou Ji lost it to a few words.”
Jiang Zu, stunned, Zhou Lily turned, raging at Zhou Ji.
“Jiang Zu didn’t know tonight’s stakes, you didn’t? Li Qiya sent someone to stir up trouble. That guy’s face screamed idiot, whose leash held him? She’s clean, Zhou Ji, you?”
The man was Li Qiya’s, knowing Jiang Zu’s injury and limits, clearly pre-investigated.
Whether deliberately dumb or used by Li Qiya, he was untied to her.
He was someone else’s plus-one; Li Qiya never appeared.
But Zhou Ji represented the Zhou siblings.
In hindsight, it didn’t matter if Jiang Zu was targeted.
He stayed calm, unbothered by the words.
It was a calculated trap for Zhou Ji.
Li Qiya had been a thorn since joining—producer fights, casting, trivial nonsense.
Zhou Ji couldn’t snap, but his temper was known—Li Qiya kept pushing.
Until the critical moment, his emotions erupted.
Fully used, Zhou Lily bore the fallout; Li Qiya knew who called shots and targeted her.
Zhou Ji got it, sweating, nausea from being played urging him to retch.
But with only guilt, he couldn’t.
“Lost funding? Find more. You know who was there? Zhou Ji, if Li Qiya pushes me to be executive producer, I will swallow it. What’s that role for?”
Zhou Ji, hoarse, mumbled.
Zhou Lily, cold, “Speak.”
Voice like a mosquito, “For big-name cameo actors or barely-involved execs… for show.”
“Then what were my years?”
She hurled her heels into the pool.
Water splashed, cold drops hitting her feet, chilling to the bone, creeping up her spine.
“Zhou Shengzheng said I’d crash and burn in this circle, just a grunt. I called him bullshit. Funny, I’m the one bullshitting. This circle’ll mock me, he’ll always see me as a joke…”
“Sis…” Zhou Ji, shrinking, reached for her hand like a kid.
Zhou Lily’s gaze was vacant, seeing nothing, no one, makeup hollow, lips stark red.
She dodged his hand, walking inside.
Zhou Ji watched her stumble, vanishing behind glass doors, then crouched, hugging his knees, trembling.
Jiang Zu panicked, crouching, patting his back.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
Urgently, “I don’t get it, but don’t be scared.”
“We’re friends, right? I’m here, don’t be afraid.”
Zhou Ji gripped Jiang Zu’s sleeve like a drowning man, nearly tearing the cufflink.
Head down, voice teary.
“I screwed up badly, Brother Jiang. Sis won’t forgive me, no way this time…”
Jiang Zu: “No, no, Sister Lily’s just mad. She scolds you lots, but says you’re her only brother. I messed up too, so don’t blame yourself.”
“Not the same… Brother Jiang, not the same.”
Zhou Ji gripped tighter, voice raw, “I was too dumb, ruined everything… Sis mentioned Zhou Shengzheng… he…”
Unable to continue, his legs buckled, nearly falling into the pool.
Jiang Zu steadied him, hesitating, then hugged him like the director once did.
Zhou Ji was ice-cold.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Jiang Zu repeated by his ear, over and over.
*
Maybe truly scared, unsure how to cope, Zhou Ji calmed and spilled Zhou Lily’s story.
She was Zhou Shengzheng’s “experiment.”
Her mother, a minor actress, hit hot searches thrice.
First, marrying Zhou Shengzheng.
Second, nominated for Venice Best Actress for Octopus.
Third, her death.
Octopus, a near-award-winner, was Zhou Shengzheng’s, filmed around Zhou Lily’s birth.
“Octopus mother’s sacrifice” described the creature’s post-spawning behavior.
Mother octopuses, after laying eggs, show extreme maternal sacrifice.
Cannibalistic, they eat younger kin when hungry.
Post-egg-laying, they stop eating, focusing on oxygenating and protecting eggs.
Weeks or months, they consume no food, depleting reserves until weak.
Once eggs hatch, the mother, exhausted, dies.
Culturally, this symbolizes selfless maternal love or nature’s life-sustaining sacrifice.
When researchers remove the optic gland post-reproduction, progesterone, estrogen, and 7-dehydrocholesterol normalize.
She stops self-destruction, resumes eating, and lives longer.
She ceases singing of selfless maternal sacrifice.
Zhou Shengzheng filmed such a mother.
A woman in her thirties, dutiful, affable, society’s perfect exploitation target.
As a mother, she became another species.
Forced to shed society’s imposed armor, she showed a non-threatening stance to her infant.
She grew fragile, yet cared for a trouble-causing baby with no right or wrong.
She didn’t want to be a full-time housewife, risking social disconnect, returning to a cutthroat workplace.
Work demanded competition; home needed softness.
She became a new creature, realizing she had to abandon one—she lacked means for both.
Shot from a female perspective, coldly, restrainedly, it captured her collapse and healing.
Problem was, Zhou Shengzheng cast his wife, fresh from birthing Zhou Lily.
A decent husband, he was a mad director.
He demanded real vulnerability, maternal love, neuroticism, madness, indifference.
But she wasn’t a gland-removed octopus, nor just hormone-driven.
She loved her husband, genuinely adored her daughter.
Post-filming, she couldn’t find herself.
Her first embrace of Zhou Lily’s softness turned to fear.
The longer together, fear became loathing.
She knew she was off, but couldn’t escape, remade like her role.
She named her daughter Zhou Lily, loving All About Lily Chou-Chou.
Now she feared films, and Zhou Lily.
Octopus’s irony: a man driving his wife mad made an award-nominated film on female struggles.
Noticing her state, Zhou Shengzheng pulled from promotion.
Choosing her over their daughter, he left the toddler with nannies, taking her abroad for treatment.
To limit fallout, producers buried it, easing off award pushes.
A film of such sacrifice fizzled out.
Back home, Zhou Lily neared four.
Eager for her parents, she saw only cold eyes.
Her mother, seeing her, showed pain, struggle, crying love while wanting to strangle her.
Zhou Shengzheng told her to stay out of sight—her presence worsened her mother’s condition.
When her mother got pregnant with Zhou Ji, she seemed better, smiling, saying, You’ll have a sibling soon.
She said, Sorry, Lily, so sorry.
But she died in childbirth, leaving Zhou Ji.
Before dying, she made Zhou Shengzheng swear.
Never, never, never let Lily become her.
“No wonder Zhou Lily hates him… has severe PTSD. Zhou Ji’s not shocked she’d attempt again…”
System, fresh from author talks, heard Zhou Ji’s third-person account.
Before checking logs, it nearly choked.
“No wonder Zhou Ji kept warning you, tell him if Zhou Lily’s off. If she’s like Zhou Shengzheng and insists you’re her lead, then—”
“It’s fine,” Chu Zu said.
“She’s a victim. Don’t pin uncommitted acts on her, labeling her a perpetrator.”
“Original plot? Zhou Lily only made a sibling-bond film. She saw hope, not suffering.”
Zhou Ji curled on the villa sofa, chin on knees.
Telling it took time, halfway he cried, eyes red, swollen, trembling, pausing to speak.
He’d never shared family matters, feeling he caused his sister’s illness.
His mother nearly recovered, but died for him.
Zhou Lily never blamed him.
Even yelling, “How do I have such a dumbass brother,” she affirmed his place.
How could she not blame?
She forced herself not to, accepting a strange family member.
Knowing abandoned kids’ fates, she shielded Zhou Ji for years, until rain broke her, leading to the bridge.
Jiang Zu saved her.
Not just pulling her from the river—he truly saved her.
After funding the orphanage, Zhou Lily saw a therapist regularly, medicated, hospitalized when worse, exercised when better.
She planned twenty years ahead.
Before, Zhou Ji couldn’t imagine—she lived day-to-day.
Japanese singer Mika Nakashima’s “I Once Thought of Ending It All.”
As a kid, Zhou Ji, not knowing Japanese, loved the melody, checked the translation.
He cried, cursing how someone could write such cruel lyrics.
I once thought of ending it all.
Because I saw seagulls wail at the dock.
Drifting seabirds.
Peck at my past, spread wings, fly away.
He learned Japanese, stopped listening to the song that made him cry like an idiot.
He helped the orphanage with Zhou Lily, helped Jiang Zu.
Jiang Zu believed good deeds brought fate’s reward.
Zhou Ji doubted, but Jiang Zu proved it true.
So he believed.
Zhou Lily did good, he did too, so fate would favor her.
Her career steadied—she worked hard, had talent, just needed luck.
Heaven would grant it.
Being good was great.
But he ruined it.
Zhou Lily hated Zhou Shengzheng, yet she’d become his joke.
“Zhou Ji’s got serious mental issues too, never addressed.”
Chu Zu patted his back, telling the System.
“He and Zhou Lily torment each other, thorns in their softest spots. Her symptoms are clearer, he’s too carefree, both ignored it.”
The system had no fix, found online advice, but not for Jiang Zu.
He shouldn’t grasp Zhou Lily’s story, so couldn’t comment, only comfort Zhou Ji his way.
Then, silent System let out a rare screech—
“Zhou Lily opened a bottle of quetiapine in her bedroom!!!”
Chu Zu froze, shook by the sound, and left Zhou Ji, sprinting to her room.
The system checked her status instinctively.
When the host was conscious, its scan range was tiny, near what he could see.
Only unconscious hosts allowed wider scans.
It had complained to the boss—why give such meager access?
The host sees it already.
Now, it was beyond grateful.
Chu Zu burst in as Zhou Lily swallowed the bottle.
Makeup off, her pale face paler, lips colorless, eyes clearer than by the pool.
Seeing the door crash open, she smiled faintly, voice a sigh.
“You again.”
Chu Zu saw the bottle—quetiapine.
From Jiang Zu’s treatment and community work with mental health patients, he knew psych meds.
“I’m taking you to the hospital! Now!”
He scooped her up, like in the river, holding tight, no chance to struggle.
Zhou Ji, at the door, froze, until Chu Zu rushed past like a hurricane.
The narrow doorway—Chu Zu, desperate, barreled through, shouldering him.
Then Zhou Ji crouched, clutching his scalp, crying chaotically, near collapse.
*
Chu Zu didn’t ask System if he had a license, grabbed villa keys, speeding to the hospital.
ER doctors acted fast on Zhou Lily.
Quetiapine overdose risked respiratory suppression, low blood pressure, slow heart rate.
Besides forced gastric lavage, they used anticholinergics.
No specific antidote meant observation post-treatment.
Sent in time, drugs unabsorbed, she avoided ICU, staying conscious.
Chu Zu stayed by her, never leaving.
The system meant to sync author talks, but seeing his focus, didn’t disturb, checking logs.
…
Only the heart monitor’s beeps filled the room.
Zhou Lily, weak, spoke first.
“A-Zu, you always think people are good. I’m not who you imagine.”
“At home, I’d go crazy, not from illness, to make Zhou Shengzheng suffer, remind him of the woman he wants to forget.”
The siblings were alike—they thought Jiang Zu didn’t get it, perfect to confide in.
Jiang Zu listened quietly.
“The more erratic I was, like her, the angrier he got, but he couldn’t touch me. He’d die before believing I became her, insisting I’m dramatic, not sick.”
“I stopped, because Zhou Ji kept crying. I hate him, but don’t want to. He’s the only one in the family who didn’t do wrong… I tried being a good sister.”
“But I couldn’t.”
“I hate myself.”
“No,” Jiang Zu said. “Don’t hate Zhou Ji, or yourself.”
“I’m jealous of you,” Zhou Lily said, mocking herself.
“You don’t see yourself as tragic or helpless, never ruled by anger or resentment. No matter how rotten things get, you stay positive, moving forward.”
“A-Zu, I’m insanely jealous. Seeing you, I’m reminded how selfish, how wretched I am… I hate that.”
Jiang Zu was silent, then moved, sitting by her bed.
He placed her hand in his palm, gently, no pressure, careful.
“You’re not wretched. Without you, I wouldn’t have gone to college, helped the orphanage.”
Softly, “The kids love you, Director Mom loves you, Zhou Ji loves you, I love you. I wouldn’t love a wretched person, at most not dislike, so you’re not wretched.”
Simple logic, responding to what he could grasp.
But it shattered Zhou Lily’s heart.
How could there be a Jiang Zu?
He continued, “You don’t need to be jealous, Sister Lily.”
His palm closed, warmth spreading, he smiled.
“I’ll give you my positivity and cheer, you give me your anger and selfishness. That’ll fix it.”
Zhou Lily’s heart emptied.
Since her mother’s death, she first felt like crying.
He jumped from a high bridge, a stranger, yet swam to you, brought you to shore.
She knew the bridge’s height, the terror of falling, brushing death, no turning back.
When lifted in the bedroom, she thought, if awake in the river, it’d feel the same.
Even at midnight, a sun-warm embrace stubbornly snatched her from death’s scythe, again.
In her hated world, how could there be a Jiang Zu?
“You’re… the smartest fool I’ve met,” she said.
Since college, when called a fool, Jiang Zu argued back.
This time, he said nothing, just shook his warm, strong hand, grinning foolishly.
*
When Zhou Lily slept from the drugs, Chu Zu synced work with the System.
Talks with the author were short. After explaining and apologizing, she burst into tears.
The chick wondered if it misspoke, embarrassed.
When she stopped sniffling, she asked, “Is this specialist… female? A mature, steady big sister, right?”
Specialist info was confidential; System took it as praise, unable to answer.
After thinking, the author refused plot changes, respecting original readers.
But she loved the revised Jiang Zu, wanting backtrack effects kept.
She trusted the specialist understood her, could fix logic gaps, free to improvise.
The system was stumped—do the job or not, how?
“She asked if your revised work could be the film script’s first draft.”
“Screenwriters will tweak, but your core direction and character perspectives stay.”
“She said film royalties can rise, your name before hers.”
The system added, “She’ll announce all revisions are approved, taking full responsibility.”
Chu Zu: “It’s her novel. Why put my name first? No need.”
Recalling her crying, System was moved, “You’re a selfless specialist. I’ll learn from you.”
Chu Zu: “Will my rating count, how?”
System: “Royalties are high…”
“How?” Chu Zu pressed.
“…”
No precedent—its host was too unique.
“I’ll submit it to the boss, and I should get results soon!”
Chu Zu, satisfied, “Work needs clarity, no vagueness.”
System: “Good!”
Glancing at sleeping Zhou Lily, Chu Zu mused, “If I’m free to improvise, I’ll really improvise?”
System, trusting more than the author, “Really improvise.”
Chu Zu smiled, “Then I’ll improvise.”
The system unleashed, rubbing chick fists, nearly saying, “Who are we hitting next?”
Close enough.
“Host, what first, what next, I’m all in!”
Chu Zu laughed, “No order, we do it all.”