NOVEL WEB Ch. 44
Chapter 44: “This Is His Only Way to Redeem Himself.”
The elevator was eerily quiet.
The numbers on the overhead display ticked downward.
The elevator stopped and opened intermittently, a few people stepping in, heading downstairs for a breather.
Jiang Zu had positioned himself in front of Lu Chulin the moment the first person entered, head lowered, eyes half-hidden to avoid drawing attention to his striking gaze.
No one paid attention to the strangers in the elevator.
A glance, a strange face, and they wouldn’t spare a second look.
System: “Why’d you chase after him? Lu Chulin’s clearly uncomfortable. You greeted him, and though he can’t hear, he’s practically falling apart.”
“Not broken enough,” Chu Zu said.
The system perked up after a moment’s thought: “Right! Looks like you’ve figured it out!
That’s the way!”
“No.”
Chu Zu said, “Don’t mix too much personal emotion into work. You did great on the last task. Why lose it with Lu Chulin…?”
System: “Because I’m a kind little yellow chick.”
Chu Zu: “For work, tuck that kindness away.”
“Then I’m an unkind little yellow chick, ready to mess with that guy hard!”
Chu Zu: “…”
The system’s logic was simple.
If the host didn’t care, it could.
Just like Zhou Lily, Zhou Ji, and Sang Zhe.
Chu Zu calculated the time.
He couldn’t linger on Lu Chulin; people were waiting upstairs.
The elevator was fast enough, but he couldn’t do much to Lu Chulin inside.
Chu Zu took the chance to clarify things for the system.
“Don’t pick a side. You’re not Jiang Zu, nor a reader or viewer. Look at it from a creator’s perspective.”
“Why did the drama, shot true to the novel, get such different reactions from readers and viewers?”
System: “Didn’t you say it’s the male lead’s character? His role can’t be deeply explored. The novel’s perspective is mostly Sang Zhe’s, with Lu Chulin just filling in. But a drama won’t focus only on the female lead.”
“Is there another possibility?”
Chu Zu said.
“Novel readers dive in for the love story. They want an experience distinct from reality. Love is the core, redemption is a tag to support it.”
“Like Belinsky wrote, people have many definitions of love.”
“You can’t judge others’ views as invalid just because they differ from yours. This theme I don’t quite get naturally makes all illogical logic seem reasonable.”
The system blinked its beady eyes, stunned.
It quickly searched: Belinsky, full name Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky, active in the mid-19th century, advanced Russian realist literature.
Was the host’s example a bit… too classical?
But the point stood.
The little yellow chick closed the search, listening intently as the host continued.
“But text and reality have a natural barrier. A drama vividly imprints a person’s features into your sight and mind.”
“If you accept that image, they become someone you could see anywhere—do you want to watch people around you just fall in love?”
The system, not human, didn’t know.
But from the host’s perspective, it didn’t want Sang Zhe to become insecure because of Lu Lin.
“Don’t like it,” it answered.
“That’s the issue.”
Chu Zu said, “And a two-hour movie amplifies all conflicts.”
“I can ignore the arguments—it’s inevitable. It’s unrelated to fixing Jiang Zu. With or without me, different voices will emerge.”
“But I still hope every character in the author’s pen is… complete.”
The system stuck to its core algorithm, built for side character correction.
“That’s not our job.”
The little yellow chick said, “If the author wants to fix the male lead, they’d need the other system… Plus, this book has no evaluation. Doing their work is for nothing…”
Surprised the system was savvier than him, Chu Zu chuckled, saying:
“Your host’s name will be in the movie’s screenwriter credits. Doing something to boost the work’s completeness is only right.”
The elevator dinged, reaching the first floor.
Lu Chulin had pressed for the basement, leaving just him and Jiang Zu.
“And I’m not fixing the male lead. It’s tough. He’s a wild-grown plant, trimmed neat by repeated self-choices. Forcing a new shape would only make him clumsier.”
System: “He’s already clumsy. Viewers think so too.”
Chu Zu didn’t argue, only said: “Because Lu Chulin hits the audience’s real pain points.”
“Almost everyone dreams of changing their life through the college entrance exam, smoothing rough paths, extending flat roads to their dreams’ doorstep.”
“No reader feels like Luciano’s victim, but they’ve likely met someone like Lu Chulin in life—doesn’t that irk you?”
System: “Irks me…”
“So you made it through, got into a decent college, graduated, but you’re more anxious.”
“Inexplicable unfairness, workplace exploitation, societal rules. The harder you work, the less you gain, and everyone says that’s how it is, keep running.”
“Then Lu Chulin shows up again—how do you feel?”
System: “Really… angry…”
“I said Lu Chulin has a sense of superiority, not in a bad way.”
“It made him the orphanage’s most reliable kid, its shade. If it led to more good deeds, judging actions not motives, a lifetime of superiority wouldn’t be bad.”
“But his environment ensures that superiority, when faced with setbacks, rebounds to a nastier extreme than most.”
Chu Zu thought, then said: “Love and redemption—the drama proved love doesn’t work. So the movie can only do redemption. That, I’m familiar with.”
“If I were the director, I’d love Lu Lin’s character. Jiang Zu, Sang Zhe, Lu Chulin—of the three, I’m the least interesting.”
System: “No way… no way…! Not true!”
Chu Zu shook his head: “Sang Zhe bends but doesn’t break, Lu Lin fells forests to become Chulin, while I’m always stable, just the needle between their growth patterns.”
“Three weed-like kids, with innate and acquired flaws, lacking love, inferiority, craving attention, unwilling to live mundanely—a natural social theme with dramatic flair…”
“Of the three, I’m the desocialized anchor, unchanging, neither worse nor better. The author wants Sang Zhe to have an arc, but what about Lu Chulin?”
“He…” the system forced neutrality, “he’s stuck in the middle. Not great enough, not bad enough, lukewarm, occasionally grossing you out.”
Seeing the system got his point, Jiang Zu smiled.
“No need for extremes. In modern society, you can’t be extremely good, and the extremely bad go to jail.”
The system knew Chu Zu had a plan, just waiting for the right moment to reveal it.
Even in frustrating, passive plots, the host always swiftly gathered all info, keeping the situation in hand.
He always knew what to do, what to achieve.
The system recalled what the host had done.
“So you took Zhou Lily’s movie and kept tabs on his company to… crush Lu Chulin?”
Lu Chulin’s early success came from his actor status, later from breaking into top-tier capital.
Now, with his ear condition flaring and his company in crisis, he saw Jiang Zu’s audition.
Even if he didn’t grasp acting, professional reactions showed Jiang Zu’s dominance in performance.
Lu Chulin’s superiority was crushed, worse than in the orphanage, defenseless.
Both times tied to Jiang Zu, his emotions would spike.
But a seasoned adult differed from a just-grown youth.
Chu Zu, good-naturedly: “Doing one thing to hit multiple goals…”
“Got it, got it! I get it! Do it, do it all, together!”
The system said, “After breaking and rebuilding… who knows what Lu Chulin will become…”
“Honestly, I don’t care what he becomes. Only Jiang Zu does.”
Since playing Jiang Zu, Chu Zu has been gentle.
Gentle words, gentle demeanor.
His only sharp edge was his innately flawed eyes, yet those vertical pupils were cloaked in tolerance, hidden behind glasses.
Because Jiang Zu was like that, the system naturally projected his traits onto the host.
But now, Chu Zu showed an indescribable coldness.
It wasn’t even clear if it could be called coldness.
He saw guiding the situation as just part of the job, as he told the system—don’t mix personal emotions into work.
Jiang Zu was Jiang Zu, Chu Zu was Chu Zu.
Yet Chu Zu showed a shade similar to Jiang Zu, saying:
“But for Silent Peach and Plum’s movie, I hope he can save himself. He fled his eighteen-year-old self, but he’ll face that pain again someday. Getting through it is his only way to redeem himself.”
Chu Zu said, “That way, he’ll be the second most complex protagonist after Sang Zhe, with a full growth arc. Viewers will be irked but will examine the character itself. That’s the point of shaping characters in film.”
The system was silent for a long time until Chu Zu and Lu Chulin stepped out of the elevator, about to interact, when it managed:
“You… were you a director before?”
The little yellow chick was dazed.
It kept finding new facets of Chu Zu beyond its understanding.
It recalled, when saving Zhou Lily, it nearly asked.
A novelist who died writing… could they know first aid so well?
Not just theory—he practiced, like he’d done it thousands of times.
Now, too, Chu Zu seemed to understand directing, with his own take on films.
He spoke with certainty, no need for the system to check facts.
If this was just a novelist’s skill set… that was too much.
Chu Zu: “Want the truth or a joke?”
System: “Truth…”
Chu Zu: “I’ve done everything, 3,548 professions, loving each one.”
The system froze, then bristled: “I told the truth, not a joke!!!”
Chu Zu stifled a laugh: “Hold on, let me crush Lu Chulin first, okay?”
System: “…”
System: “Fine, I guess.”
*
Lu Chulin was deeply agitated.
The underground garage was lit, his car nearby, but Jiang Zu trailed him, impossible to shake.
Even without looking, the shadow cloaking him followed like a specter.
He shouldn’t have come.
Lu Chulin began to regret it.
If there was a Lu Chulin Life File, at any age, he’d skip the few pages tied to Jiang Zu.
But he couldn’t.
Seeing those eyes, fragments from fading memories flashed, etched vividly into his mind.
Absurdly, though Lu Chulin couldn’t hear, when Jiang Zu spoke, he knew exactly what was said without reading lips.
[It’s really you, Lu Lin. Long time no see!]
Unlike Sang Zhe, who couldn’t convey tone with sound, Jiang Zu could.
His voice must be pure, joyful excitement, untainted by anything else.
Thus, long-buried pasts were laid bare even clearer.
At the car, Lu Chulin opened the door, about to get in, when Jiang Zu grabbed him.
Lu Chulin tugged a few times, failed, and snapped.
“What do you want?!”
He turned, lashing out at Jiang Zu.
“Aren’t you satisfied? The Zhou family’s on your side, Sang Zhe’s on your side, even tough Li Qiya’s on your side.”
“You’re about to be the male lead, with pay and fame. Why chase me? Just to see me humiliated?”
“I-I…”
Jiang Zu was thrown, then spoke softly, slowly: “I don’t quite get what you mean. You seem mad. Because of Zhou Ji? He gets worked up, but he doesn’t do anything wrong. Maybe it’s me…”
Even now, Lu Chulin could clearly parse every word Jiang Zu said.
It was pathetic—he already knew how Jiang Zu would respond to anything he said.
He should’ve forgotten… and he had.
“What do you want…” he gritted out.
Afraid he’d leave, Jiang Zu held on, pulling out his phone, scrolling, then showing it to him.
It was Sang Zhe’s angry retort to others’ comments.
Three days later, some things were settled in netizens’ minds, though the gavel hadn’t fallen.
Many had unspoken judgments.
But some Lu Chulin fans still defended him, same argument: stick to facts, why play the pitiful fool to annoy people?
Sang Zhe posted: [Haven’t you considered how your comments hurt others? You say stick to facts, so why resort to personal attacks!]
She used exclamation marks in every sentence, prompting mockery:
[We get you’re worked up, but so fragile you can’t handle the internet? Haven’t you thought your exclamation marks hurt my eyes? Can’t talk without them?]
Jiang Zu said: “They shouldn’t talk about Sang Zhe like that. Her exclamation marks are just a habit—her teacher taught her that.”
Lu Chulin didn’t hear his expression near-ghastly, chest heaving, staring at the screen.
His first thought: What’s Jiang Zu showing me this for? To control my fans?
Then: I only have these supporters left. He’s not dumb enough to make me alienate them, is he?
Seeing no reaction, Jiang Zu seemed to recall Sang Zhe’s actions in the video, retracting the phone.
Lu Chulin’s gaze followed the phone upward, watching him type forcefully with one hand.
Jiang Zu wrote his words in a note, showing Lu Chulin.
So what do you want—
Before saying it, Lu Chulin remembered.
[Next time he badmouths Sang Zhe, just punch him twice.]
His own words, crossing time and space, pierced his heart.
He didn’t know how, after forgetting for years, it hit him now.
The next line detonated like a long-hidden bomb.
[Forget it, don’t hit. I’m afraid you’d lose and get beaten and scolded.]
Jiang Zu remembered, so when Sang Zhe was wronged, he didn’t reply himself.
Seeing Lu Chulin, he ignored expectations, grand prospects, and rushed over.
He didn’t ask about the university slot or online attacks.
He wasn’t here to reminisce or boast.
Didn’t care, didn’t heed, wasn’t important.
What mattered, what he heeded, what was truly important—he remembered.
This fact gripped Lu Chulin’s heart, leaving him breathless.
[I know you did wrong before. You should’ve explained, not lied. But it’s okay, I went to school, I love my job, my life now.]
[But you and Sang Zhe have no conflict, right? You always protected her. I remember you said in this case, come to you. So I did.]
The absurd situation became laughable through Jiang Zu’s near-foolish simplicity.
Lu Chulin stared, lips numbly twitching.
Online noise was a light rain to Jiang Zu—he got wet, then moved on.
The real thunder was Sang Zhe being attacked for defending him.
Jiang Zu truly believed he’d step up as always, his gaze full of trust.
Trust was the deadliest attack.
Blunt, soft, it didn’t list your hidden shame but made you struggle repeatedly.
Lu Chulin could ignore Sang Zhe’s accusations, feigning wrongful innocence, but now he faced true innocence.
Innocence, untainted, was terrifyingly lethal.
Lu Chulin felt back that night, overhearing the dean and sponsor’s call.
Before pulling Jiang Zu away, his mind was blank, fear from the shock obliterating all thoughts, leaving nothing.
Then he lied.
Jiang Zu always looked at him this way, even when saying, “I’m not going to school.”
And now, Jiang Zu still asked: [Lu Lin, what do we do?]
In Lu Chulin’s heart, the malformed tower built over years collapsed with one chance meeting, a few naive, oblivious words.
Pale, he yanked free from Jiang Zu with all his strength, spitting coldly, “Get lost, who are you to ask me,” and slammed the car door.
The sound must’ve been loud, shaking the car.
Ignoring everything, with Jiang Zu’s devastating gaze still outside, Lu Chulin started the engine and floored it.
This was his second time fleeing from Jiang Zu.
Unlike last time, the dust trail marked a pathetic escape.
…
“Keep an eye on him.”
Chu Zu instructed in his mind, “Any odd moves from Lu Chulin, tell me immediately.”
“Okay…” the system replied.
Chu Zu did nothing extra, only what Jiang Zu would do.
But the impact stunned the system.
Jiang Zu wouldn’t talk about himself, and Chu Zu knew dwelling on past wrongs was useless—it’d only make Lu Chulin resist more.
He knew he’d done wrong.
Why else run?
Talk about what he could’ve done but didn’t due to selfish choices.
Normally, Lu Chulin wouldn’t react, like when he met Sang Zhe.
He’d keep performing, deceiving, used to the act.
But now, abandoned by Zhou Shengzheng, facing career crises, he recalled those beautiful things, regretting their loss.
Orphanage happiness was easy—people were kind for no reason, no profit, no business ties.
Mess up, get scolded together, and tomorrow would still dawn bright.
Lu Chulin was… thoroughly broken, the system thought.
It wondered if he’d weather this.
*
Jiang Zu returned to the audition room.
Zhou Lily couldn’t read his expression and didn’t ask, starting to introduce the crew.
Directing, production, screenwriting, art, sound, lighting, costume and makeup, admin logistics.
Only the post-production team, swamped elsewhere, wasn’t present.
Most team leads greeted Jiang Zu.
Surprisingly, the catering logistics lead shook his hand longer.
“I hear about you from that old geezer all the time.”
The woman said boldly, “I know his temper, stubborn as hell. I told him to stay home—I’m busy, not dead. He wouldn’t, said the neighbor granny went home, so he did too.”
Jiang Zu’s eyes lit up: “Oh, oh, oh, the grandpa from the home.”
Catering lead: “Yeah, went and never came back. I went to get him, but he stopped missing that granny, just kept saying how great our Little Zu is.”
“Wanted to treat you to dinner forever, didn’t expect this chance. Don’t worry, during shooting, tell me what you want to eat—plenty!”
Jiang Zu beamed: “Great, great, thank you!”
At the evening gathering, Zhou Lily and Li Qiya networked.
Jiang Zu sat in a corner, not alone—Yu Lin squatted nearby, brooding silently.
Crew members, long in the industry, knew Yu Lin liked quiet.
Those wanting to chat with Jiang Zu didn’t dare approach.
When the two leading women were drunk, Jiang Zu dutifully steadied Zhou Lily.
Yu Lin stood, saying to Li Qiya: “I’m off, talk later.”
He put on his bucket hat and ambled off.
Watching Jiang Zu support Zhou Lily steadily, Li Qiya, heels in hand, muttered: “Clueless dog of a man, making me look second-rate!”
Zhou Lily, dizzy but sharp-eared: “Don’t feel inferior, it’s fate.”
The room erupted in laughter.
On the launch ceremony day, the media swarmed the scene.
Zhou Lily struck the gong, Li Qiya unveiled the camera’s red cloth.
Amid applause, the main cast appeared.
Holding a hefty red envelope, Jiang Zu stood beside Yu Lin.
Yu Lin suddenly whispered to him.
“The student in Zhou Ji’s video—it’s you, right?”
Jiang Zu mumbled, not answering directly.
“Figured it’s you.”
Yu Lin said, “Not my business, but Lu Chulin’s fans, most gone, some rabid ones left, are now attacking me, saying I’m his rival…”
“Sorry…”
“Why apologize?”
“Don’t know… but sorry…”
“I mean, last night Lu Chulin’s IPR team issued a statement. They’ve compensated ex-employees’ social security, bonuses, and overtime, but never addressed Zhou Ji and Zhou Lily’s claims.”
It was Jiang Zu’s first time hearing Yu Lin speak so much.
True to his status as a top actor, he spoke fast, low, each word clear.
“Reporters can dig what I can. They’ll probably ask you later.”
Seeing Jiang Zu’s blank look, Yu Lin guessed, saying:
“Don’t answer. Whatever you say, they’ll twist. Best not say a word.”
…
“Everyone’s called Lin, in entertainment, the same age, but why’s Yu Lin so decent?”
The system tsked.
“Lu Chulin been quiet?”
Chu Zu asked.
System: “Nope, just seeing doctors for his ears, handling PR, staying up late on rooftops moping. Tried calling you and Sang Zhe a few times, never went through.”
“Where’d he get our numbers?”
“Dug them up.”
“He should call. Good to stay in touch,” Chu Zu said regretfully.
“I did my part. He better redeem himself soon. If he’s set on going dark, unsalvageable, let me know quickly. I’ll work on Plan B for Silent Peach and Plum. Finish what’s needed, so I can focus on Zhou Shengzheng.”
System, curious: “Is Zhou Shengzheng part of our job?”
Chu Zu: “No, Zhou Lily’s barely a side role in the movie—I just don’t like him because of the Zhou siblings.”
System: “…”
System: “Good! Very good!”
…
After the ribbon-cutting, the press interview began.
Initially, questions were standard—film themes, shooting plans, content.
Then an entertainment reporter blurted: “As the one whose university sponsorship was taken by Lu Chulin, Mr. Jiang Zu, any comments?”
The lively atmosphere froze.
Chu Zu didn’t answer.
Even without Yu Lin’s warning, he wouldn’t.
He’d do nothing more with Lu Chulin.
He’d done enough.
Jiang Zu knew the online mess affected Lu Chulin, as did Sang Zhe.
He wouldn’t lie or betray Zhou Ji’s kindness.
Silence was enough.
Zhou Lily gave a cold laugh, piercing the silence.
Li Qiya quickly smoothed things over.
She wanted to crush Lu Chulin, but Jiang Zu was her lead now.
Since he had his stance, not meddling was best.
The seasoned media handler brushed it off, restoring the cheerful vibe.
At least on the surface.
*
“Who leaked Jiang Zu’s medical records?!”
Late that night, in an empty living room, Lu Chulin roared into the phone.
The computer on the coffee table was flipped onto the carpet, water from a glass spilled across the table, dripping steadily.
Lu Chulin wore custom hearing aids, with treatment restoring some hearing, though sound was still muffled, needing raised voices to be clear.
Dealing with the labor bureau took effort.
He hadn’t checked online news, too scared to.
His Weibo DMs were flooded, work emails overflowing with inquiries after leaks.
His fading fanbase plummeted further.
His “artist actor” persona never had a fan club.
The rational fans left; only the combative few remained, clashing online.
Lu Chulin handed netizens’ attacks and speculations to PR, raising salaries to keep them working.
He clung to hope, telling himself he didn’t miss the orphanage days.
Cold meals, biased dean, creaky beds, flickering lamps…
Even if recalled, there was nothing to miss.
Tonight, Lu Chulin was just checking finance news when Li Qiya’s name popped up.
Her company had many projects, last year’s financials strong, and now applying to go public.
In the prospectus, Return was listed as an S+ project.
Lu Chulin’s hand shook, clicking related news, and Jiang Zu’s info as Return’s lead flooded out.
He meant to close it, but froze on the red X.
[Per netizens, Jiang Zu, due to untreated childhood brain injury, has moderate TBI (traumatic brain injury), with delayed intellectual development.]
[He’s the figure in the recent Lu Chulin scandal, early on stating he wouldn’t hold Lu Chulin accountable.]
[Back then, the company exploitation issue hadn’t surfaced. Many reacted strongly—wonder what they think now?]
Attached was a medical diagnosis, key details blurred.
The aged, yellowed paper had murky stains but was legible.
The agent on the phone knew Lu Chulin was furious about why PR let this news spread.
Entertainment was “united”—unless out to ruin someone, reporters hinted to the subject first.
Give money?
How much?
“We checked. Not Li Qiya or the Zhou siblings. The account leaking the records is a random one, usually posting health tips…”
The agent said, “This time, the blogger directly named you, cursing. It’s all over the square, spreading fast. It’s an unstoppable hot topic, so marketing accounts didn’t contact our studio, just—”
“Not only did they rip off the veil, but it’s easy to tie his intellectual issues to me. You don’t get that? Why no action?”
“Because… Li Qiya’s still watching… Once his intellectual disability leaked, he’s naturally the underdog…”
“I’m the underdog now, not him with everything!”
Slamming the phone, immense pressure drove Lu Chulin to the bathroom, retching violently by the toilet.
He vomited until dizzy, nearly emptying his stomach acid and bile, but felt no better, his insides churned to ruin.
Lu Chulin didn’t know how to feel better.
Uncontrollably, he recalled childhood. When sick, the dean stayed by his bed, gently rubbing his stomach.
Sang Zhe and Jiang Zu, barely taller than the bed, stared at him.
During mumps, he couldn’t stay hospitalized—too costly, even with subsidies—so he told the dean he was fine, and could recover at home.
Sang Zhe had been adopted by then.
The dean, busy fundraising, and Jiang Zu, swamped with studies, took turns caring for him.
Being sick didn’t feel so bad.
Deliberately forgotten memories tore at Lu Chulin, leaving him no corner to rest in this grand, ornate house.
Unable to bear it, he stumbled back to the living room, not knowing what he was thinking, grabbing his phone, dialing the number he’d hesitated to call.
Jiang Zu didn’t answer.
Oddly, this let him breathe a sigh of relief.
Right, Jiang Zu wasn’t as good as he thought.
He could be selfish too, angry when his hidden flaws were exposed.
That’s why he didn’t pick up.
Lu Chulin sat on the wet carpet, covering his eyes, breathing deeply.
Picking up his phone again, he accidentally opened Weibo, the app refreshing.
Among those he quietly followed, someone posted half a minute ago.
[It’s been ages since I stargazed with A-Zu! Tonight! Stars are super bright!!!]
Lu Chulin’s hand shook, his emotions unclear, nose and mouth smothered by the vomit he’d just expelled.
Each breath twisted strangely.
Clicking the image.
Like diamonds on a black curtain, stars twinkled—hundreds, thousands, millions, dazzling.
The young man in the photo seemed rushed from a formal event, in a suit, tie askew, shirt missing two buttons, sweat on his brow.
To match the girl’s height, he awkwardly bent, hands on thighs.
To capture the sky’s stars, the shot was angled upward.
Any cinematographer would condemn this atrocious, ugly composition.
But no cinematographer would deny the man and woman’s smiles outshone any fashion spread’s sincerity.
They were close, like siblings, with identical eye curves, lip smiles, and faint cheek dimples.
On this star-filled night.
Some gazed at their radiant summer from a rooftop, others stared back from a lavish mansion.
Staring at his rushed, meaningless, already shattered grand future.