A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 45: “For You and My Own Grand Futures!”

It was understandable that Jiang Zu didn’t answer Lu Chulin’s call.

The launch ceremony was followed by an evening “ice-breaking banquet,” a casual name Zhou Lily gave it.

Meant to bond the team, it invited many who weren’t yet part of it.

The goal was to pitch to potential investors, securing more funding.

Zhou Lily was still hung up on a visual effects team she couldn’t book due to budget constraints.

It kept her up at night, and even after filming started, she wanted to try again.

What if some big shot bought her money-making pitch and threw cash her way?

Li Qiya laughed at her.

“If Old Li heard this, he’d think I was torturing you. Isn’t the budget enough? Your spreadsheet looks pretty.”

Li Qiya teased, “I say, Zhou Lily, why are you always so intense? No matter how good things are, it’s never enough. Someone is chasing you with a knife, saying you’ll die if you don’t make something great?”

Zhou Lily replied, half-joking: “More than my life’s at stake.”

If the director wanted more investment, Li Qiya would make introductions.

Zhou Lily was top-notch at storytelling in her films, but her pitch to entrepreneurs was clearly less sharp than Li Qiya’s.

“Return’s theme aside, it’s perfect for product placement.”

“Look, the film’s set in a society with mature AI. Speaking of tech, I immediately thought of you.”

“I get it, your new car model’s design isn’t set. What’s the issue? The logo—make it techy and slap it on… Yes, inspired by your own pitch.”

Zhou Lily lowered her voice: “Li Qiya, don’t go too…”

Ignoring Zhou Lily’s protest, Li Qiya continued: “Look, Lily and I are young creators in this industry, and so’s our whole team. No old-timers backing us—what a story. Tell it, who wouldn’t love it?”

Entrepreneurs didn’t care about films or box office pennies.

But a story that moved capital was a good story.

The entrepreneur was moved.

Zhou Ji was supposed to be at the banquet but, spooked by last time, showed up briefly before claiming he needed air, heading outside to play valet.

Unlike the restrained charity gala, this banquet had endless bread, lavish spreads across long tables.

Jiang Zu ate heartily, inspiring Yu Lin to pick at his plate.

They were like the banquet’s garbage disposals, skipping socializing, eating and drinking wherever they went, zoning out to pass time.

Halfway through gorging, Yu Lin’s agent arrived, barely suppressing a scream, visibly agitated.

“Filming’s started, Yu Lin, put it down! Who let you eat this much!”

Yu Lin’s face darkened: “Let go.”

The agent ignored him, snatching the plate, smiling awkwardly at onlookers.

Turning back, he saw Jiang Zu quietly slipping Yu Lin more food.

“You guys! You’re on camera!!!”

Seeing the time, Jiang Zu whispered to Zhou Lily that he had to leave for a meeting with Sang Zhe.

Yu Lin was the most reluctant to see him go.

“He’s really starving.”

Zhou Ji said in the car, “When Li Qiya dragged him out of the mountains, he was puffed up, round as a ball. She threw him in the gym for months, miserable every day. Probably still hasn’t eaten his fill.”

Jiang Zu noted it, planning to sneak extra food to Yu Lin during shoots.

Traffic delayed them, and as the meeting time neared, the car stopped under Sang Zhe’s building.

Jiang Zu flung open the door and bolted.

He forgot his phone in the car.

At the banquet, phones were on silent.

Even if a call came, Zhou Ji, driving, wouldn’t hear.

Sang Zhe was thrilled, as if recent events hadn’t affected her.

After taking photos, she still gazed upward, quieting.

Jiang Zu glanced and saw faint glimmers on her face.

Tear streaks.

Jiang Zu didn’t know what was wrong.

She’d been animated, fiddling with her phone for angles, telling him to crouch, fixing his hair—how did she start crying?

He pulled out tissues to wipe her face, carefully.

Sang Zhe slowly wrote in her notebook.

After, she clutched it to her chest, her lip’s curve not quite a smile.

[A-Zu, let’s do our best!]

*

“Gotta ask Zhou Lily how to handle this.”

Back home, Chu Zu told the system: “Sang Zhe’s not upset because of me. She gets braver helping others.”

System, confused: “Zhou Lily?”

“Both career women, both in arts, both with some mental struggles. Even if I know the situation, I can’t help much. Zhou Lily’s faster.”

“Oh, oh, oh.”

The system split its focus from Lu Chulin, checking Sang Zhe’s situation.

Same as before, no major issues.

Her parents arranged a tour for her in six months, smaller than before but at prestigious venues.

They didn’t comment on her recent online stir, likely fully aware but didn’t ask.

Sang Zhe didn’t want to tour, but with her parents brushing off recent events, she felt guilty and didn’t refuse.

“She has no real passion for art but doesn’t know what else to do.”

Chu Zu mused, “Quitting piano’s impossible—she loves it… but her resistance is real too.”

The system, vexed by her tangled emotions: “So those were starry-sky, lost-and-melancholy tears. Ugh, young people.”

Chu Zu: “Don’t talk so sappy. I’m not used to it.”

The little yellow chick spun huffily, quickly soothing itself.

“But if we ask Zhou Lily, won’t Sang Zhe feel worse? She didn’t even tell you—she probably doesn’t want others knowing.”

Chu Zu: “People like us who don’t overthink are like this. She cries at stars—that’s the sky falling to me. Sky’s down, why care?”

System: “Oh, right, forgot you don’t overthink.”

“Don’t take shots at me,” Chu Zu said.

“Asking friends for help isn’t shameful. If I’m stuck, I’d ask you right away, right?”

System: “I didn’t take shots! I just repeated to you!”

But it agreed the host made sense.

The next day on set, Chu Zu told Zhou Lily.

She nodded thoughtfully, returning his phone: “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

As filming began, everyone got busy, especially Zhou Lily.

Li Qiya, uninvolved in shooting, took off for vacation.

With her gone, Zhou Ji dared appear on set, sneaking to his sister: “That vile pretty woman’s not here, right?”

Zhou Lily smacked his head with the script. Zhou Ji wailed: “I was polite like you said! I’m not scared of her, just don’t want to be your weak spot, Sis—!”

Filming didn’t follow the story’s timeline.

The executive producer scheduled based on actors’ availability to save costs.

They consulted the director—some scenes were better shot early, others later.

Zhou Ji had to consider this.

He seemed unreliable, had messed up before, but scheduling brought out a glow of wisdom.

Crucially, he didn’t mind scolding.

When Zhou Lily yelled, “Where’d you steal that brain from, a pig? You dare give me this trash schedule?” he just grinned, staying silent to preserve her authority.

Gradually, Chu Zu became the set’s “loneliest” person.

With the “food-gifting bond,” Yu Lin liked hanging out, but his team was massive.

An agent, assistant agent, PR manager.

Plus a promo team, stylist, life assistant, social media manager.

After his sneaking food, they shoved a fitness coach onto the set.

Chu Zu often saw Yu Lin, lifeless-eyed in the crowd, styled but hatless, standing like a zombie.

No wonder he was a gloomy mushroom, always escaping to the mountains.

That crowd density was headache-inducing.

One shooting day, the system suddenly went “huh.”

They were filming Sigma being noticed as “off” by his “master”—Yu Lin’s role, Duine.

Duine, meaning “human” in Scottish Gaelic.

Duine was to initialize Sigma.

Sigma opened his neck port, eyes fixed on Duine.

Zhou Lily, explaining the scene, told Chu Zu: Act like an emotionless AI, but one that softens hearts.

Abstract advice—Teacher Jiang was right; she wasn’t great at teaching.

Chu Zu said, Okay.

Zhou Lily added a 45-degree lens before the camera.

The gaffer adjusted lighting to hit Chu Zu’s eyes at a right angle, avoiding direct lens glare.

No post-production needed; it created real, mechanical, reflective eyes on set.

TV dramas often used 50mm lenses, mimicking human eyes.

But Zhou Lily had the cinematographer use a 135mm telephoto for two-shot close-ups, aperture above f/2.8 for shallower depth, emphasizing the actors’ eyes.

The monitor showed their face-to-face close-up.

Sigma’s every lash was clear, but his gaze was wholly unfocused.

He blurred his vertical pupils’ sharpness, making them hazy, like a misty veil, even the mechanical glint unable to pierce those eyes.

Duine froze touching the port.

He hesitated to meet Sigma’s eyes but knew this was the AI’s data-prep phase for initialization.

With no movement, Sigma, half a head taller, slightly shifted his gaze, half-lidding to meet Duine’s eyes closely.

Like asking: Aren’t you initializing?

Hurry, I’ve prepped the data, I’m ready.

Post-initialization, you’ll have a brand-new Sigma—no anomalies, no consciousness, no personality, your property.

What are you waiting for?

Duine softly said: “Forget it.”

The data prep ended.

The mist in Sigma’s eyes cleared, light clinging to his pupils, making him seem… almost happy.

Likely an illusion.

Duine shook his head, chuckling.

“Cut!”

Zhou Lily shouted through the megaphone.

Though told to act softening, Chu Zu didn’t play weak, instead pressing Duine’s heart with questioning eyes.

It fit Sigma’s bold, gambling nature—he’d tampered with his core code from the start.

Zhou Lily, at a distance from the set, checked the monitor, telling the cinematographer and script supervisor, “Take a few more!”

Real shoots rarely had the “one-take” of entertainment novels.

Even if perfect, multiple angles or takes were shot for options.

Not yelling “Reset” showed Zhou Lily was pleased.

Days earlier, filming supporting roles, Zhou Lily couldn’t get it right, berating actors until they paled, none catching on.

She finally handed it to the assistant director, washing her hands of that group.

Repeating shots wasn’t simple.

Chu Zu, unfazed, multitasked, asking the system why it spoke up.

System: “Li Qiya’s on vacation but not idle. She’s digging into Lu Chulin’s company, keeping it flogged on social news.”

Not just social news—Jiang Zu’s medical records kept past issues trending for days, still hot.

Under the Weibo post accusing Jiang Zu of playing the innocent fool, comments kept flooding.

[I looked back at that Weibo. No evidence, every line dripping with moral righteousness. I couldn’t sleep, studied it half the night, and saw through the cracks—three words: Shameless!]

[Secondhand embarrassment hit again. Watched Return’s press conference—Jiang Zu’s little habits look so familiar…]

[Copied, huh? Didn’t they say Return’s script had no PTSD background for Luo Qian? Turns out the actor didn’t craft it—just copied.]

[He got one actor award, stepping on victims. Shameless much?]

[Not so fast, scholars don’t steal, right, Mr. Actor who stole a sponsorship?]

[Lu Chulin: Why won’t you forgive me just because I didn’t apologize?]

[Sorry, I didn’t get it then, threw shade at the victim. I’m trash…]

…

Chu Zu: “Then what?”

System: “Then… Lu Chulin’s really shattered this time. He gave the PR team a break.”

“He’s been out of the spotlight, no commercial gigs, so penalties are low.”

“But most company deals fell through, past investments wasted—not just his half, but Zhou Shengzheng’s, still hiding abroad.”

“He’s been checking company accounts, paying N+3 severance, nearly draining his funds, looking like he’ll dissolve the company.”

“That money’s nothing to Zhou Shengzheng.”

Chu Zu said, “He’s still hiding abroad. Li Qiya won’t target him. Zhou Shengzheng’s likely waiting for Lu Chulin to take the fall, then return, issue a heartfelt statement, and resume being the revered director.”

System: “Lu Chulin won’t issue a statement? I thought he’d publicly apologize… Most entertainment scandals go that way.”

“Not now. He knows coming forward looks like playing victim, and no one’s buying it. If he speaks, it’s after he’s done what’s needed.”

The system added that Lu Chulin visited the orphanage, but the dean kicked him out after two sentences.

A polite, distancing kick-out.

He tried Sang Zhe too—she ignored him.

System, hesitating: “How’s he supposed to redeem himself? Why’s he stuck halfway?”

“Wait, is it your misunderstanding of redemption, or mine?”

Chu Zu was surprised: “Who said if he stops being gross, others have to forgive him?”

System: “Uh… isn’t that usually…”

“Given the situation, let’s split redemption into two types. One’s Sang Zhe’s track—breaking free from current struggles, finding new direction and meaning.”

Chu Zu analyzed the system.

“The other’s Lu Chulin’s self-redemption… Isn’t that admitting wrongs, repenting, making positive changes to escape inner guilt and pain?”

“If he succeeds, he’s Crime and Punishment’s Raskolnikov.

If he fails, he’s The Great Gatsby’s Gatsby—but who says others must forgive him?”

The system got it.

When creations leaned realistic, the host used rigorous literary examples.

It tapped the boss-approved education fund, ordering Must-Read Classic Masterpieces, flipping through fast.

Mid-flip, the little yellow chick froze: “Raskolnikov got exiled to Siberia, Gatsby straight-up died.”

Chu Zu: “…”

Chu Zu: “Then Great Expectations’ Pip. Pip’s close enough to Gatsby, right?”

Dickens’ Great Expectations fit Lu Chulin oddly well.

Pip, an orphan, lived simply in the countryside.

Falling for a noblewoman, he grew ashamed of his roots.

Sponsored by a benefactor, Pip went to London.

There, he picked up high society’s snobbery, his lifestyle turning extravagant and corrupt, morals declining.

He grew proud, cold, distancing and scorning childhood friends.

Through romantic entanglements and identity struggles, Pip realized wealth and status didn’t bring true happiness.

He rediscovered gratitude for friends, understanding the true value of kindness and morality.

The system was floored, blurting: “If Lu Chulin fails, will he die too?”

Chu Zu laughed at the chick: “Silent Peach and Plum’s a lawful society. Who wants him dead?”

The system realized its silly question, sheepish.

Twisting, it said: “I checked recent films and novels. Most are good people redeeming wayward youths… Like, everyone ends up…”

“A happy family wrapping dumplings?”

“Yeah, yeah, dumplings!”

“No dumplings.”

Chu Zu said, “I could wrap with him, but he’s too scared to try.”

“He knows I’m the only one who’d forgive him unconditionally. If Lu Chulin truly wakes up, I’m the last person he’d face, or the one he’s most afraid of.”

“In a way, he’s terrified of me now.”

System: “True, he tried everyone, got chewed out, and hasn’t dared approach you.”

It said, “I ran a model. Audience views on Lu Chulin will vary. Not everyone buys ‘repent and renew’ plots…”

Chu Zu nodded: “Everyone’s tolerance for what Lu Chulin did differs. Not forgiving is kindness—empathizing with victims. Forgiving is kindness—giving him a chance.”

“Ultimately, whatever the judgment, everyone subconsciously wants a just, orderly society.”

The system, dizzy: “Sometimes I think you’re really extreme… By your logic, the world’s only good people!”

Chu Zu: “Weren’t they pre-screened? Old dogs wouldn’t glance at him. Look at Zhou Shengzheng—has he ever cared?”

System, ignoring the host’s rare curse: “…Right.”

Chu Zu shot a few more takes.

Zhou Lily waved him off to rest and touch up makeup for the next scene.

As the stylist worked, Yu Lin approached.

Not returning to his trailer, he came to Chu Zu’s rest area.

Sitting on a chair, Yu Lin stayed silent.

The stylist, sensing the mood, finished quickly and left.

After a while, Yu Lin said: “Teacher Sang Zhe’s not touring.”

Chu Zu didn’t expect Sang Zhe’s name from Yu Lin, unaware of this.

System rushed: “Right, that too! Sang Zhe’s not touring! …How’s Yu Lin so in the know?”

Yu Lin: “I booked tickets. My agent said they’re refunded… Know what’s up?”

Chu Zu: “You booked tickets?”

Yu Lin nodded: “During fitness, I snapped, chewed out the coach. That night, he sent me Teacher Sang Zhe’s music, said "don't be so angry, relax, good for your health.”

Chu Zu: “…”

It's hard to link Yu Lin with “angry.”

How brutal was that fitness?

“It worked,” Yu Lin said.

“I’m not into classical piano, but her playing’s like raising chickens in the mountains—calm.”

The system was speechless.

Amid its silence, it briefed the host on findings.

Zhou Lily, busy yelling on set, still made time to contact people.

Return’s rough cut would go to the booked composer post-shooting, with music and effects synced.

Good composers could be hired with money; top ones, not so much.

Zhou Lily tapped her overseas study network.

Her grad school mentor, pestered relentlessly, gave her the composer’s contact.

Zhou Lily’s intent emails bordered on harassment, but she secured contact, made countless overseas trips, and finalized the music deal.

This composer was renowned, nominated five times for Hollywood’s Best Score, winning an Oscar and Golden Globe in the same year.

Zhou Lily reached out to this composer.

Through insider info, she learned he planned a masterclass.

Further checks showed his music production company long took interns and assistants.

Zhou Lily emailed about masterclass requirements while sending Zhou Ji to talk to Sang Zhe.

It had to be face-to-face.

With texts, Sang Zhe’s personality would make her overthink, swayed by others, her reply likely not heartfelt.

Zhou Lily felt Sang Zhe most lacked “heart.”

Sometimes, she thought the domestic environment was awful.

Though called a “workaholic,” she wasn’t dragged by it—she had strong agency.

During her studies, she saw two worlds.

In France, August meant at least four weeks off.

No emails, no calls, no work.

Nordic countries were worse.

If young people there pushed overtime, they’d likely get a company email scolding them for warping workplace culture.

Unthinkable in China.

Chinese youths were always busy—school, then work.

Some kids said they were on a gap year, but they were studying for certifications.

Certifications seemed useless.

Asked why, they’d say, don’t know, just doing it.

Life felt oppressive everywhere.

Sang Zhe was the same.

She didn’t need to rush.

So young, no real goals.

If she loved piano, playing piano—starving wasn’t an issue.

Her parents taught her ambition; her experiences taught her contentment.

She hid discomfort, telling herself she was happy enough.

Many directors loved filming pain—it’s an unquantifiable concept.

Not just life-or-death agony counts.

Small feelings shouldn’t be dismissed as whining.

They’re part of life’s phases.

Sang Zhe didn’t need a worldly success template or to be taught who to become.

Who to be was for confused, inwardly tormented youths to decide.

If she hesitated, help wasn’t “do this,” but—

“My sister asked if you’d try composing for her film?”

…

“Zhou Ji’s totally selling fake dreams.”

The system said, “Zhou Lily meant for him to ask Sang Zhe about joining the masterclass. Sang Zhe loves expressing emotion, and many films value emotional scores. Try composing.”

“Zhou Ji’s scam skills are top-notch. Said Ryuichi Sakamoto had no film scoring experience before Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence. Sang Zhe bought it, and agreed.”

Chu Zu laughed: “Her parents? Do they say anything?”

“They had a serious family talk.”

The system said, “Sang Zhe wrote a long letter, saying she thought it over, friends helped a lot. She didn’t want to let her parents or friends down, most importantly, not herself.”

“She wrote, she’ll still strive, grateful for her parents’ upward drive, won’t quit piano, and wants to explore interests.”

The little yellow chick giggled: “She wrote she wants to be like Sister Lily—cheerful, bold, unstoppable, inspiring others. This girl’s never seen Zhou Lily frazzled.”

“Her parents cried harder than her… Anyway, they agreed!”

*

The film shot for four months, rivaling Hollywood blockbusters.

Jiang Zu took time to see Sang Zhe off.

With Zhou Lily’s referral, her prestigious degree, and parental support, she enrolled in the composer’s masterclass.

The week-long class was at year’s end, but Sang Zhe needed to study scoring basics early, so she left ahead.

At the airport, Jiang Zu hauled her suitcase.

Small, no need for checking, but time-consuming.

He nagged.

“It’s not that warm anymore, add layers, don’t get sick.”

“Watch your diet. I know you skip meals before performances abroad. This isn’t a performance… bad habit. Don’t just eat sandwiches—health first.”

“You’re not at school, no one’s with you. Stay safe, especially at airports, stations. Keep documents secure—you almost lost your passport.”

“If studying’s tough, it’s fine. Sister Lily said the teacher’s nice, take it slow. Don’t stay up rushing—”

Sang Zhe listened intently.

Time was up; she needed security.

She stood on tiptoes, hugging the much-taller Jiang Zu, patting his back.

Jiang Zu managed: “I’ll miss you.”

Sang Zhe nodded firmly.

It was a beautiful day.

Sang Zhe took steps toward her future, a path she chose, with her best friend seeing her off.

His nagging was old, repeated countless times, each word warm as sunrise.

As teens, they’d gazed at the blocked horizon from a tiny rooftop, the world beyond.

Some rushed out silently, vanishing into dust; some only now tentatively stepped forward.

Others’ help was precious, but don’t rely, don’t doubt.

After a dazzling summer, as leaves fell, the clear path lay underfoot.

Step out.

Releasing Jiang Zu, Sang Zhe took the suitcase, pulling a folded paper and a paper star from her pocket, placing them in his open palm.

She waved, heading to security.

Jiang Zu opened the paper.

Wrinkled, water-stained, edges curled.

Words from that night in her notebook.

[A-Zu, let’s do our best!]

A new line followed.

[For you and my own grand futures!!!]

*

Return’s production was compressed tightly.

Zhou Lily coveted pricey effects teams but ensured effects doable on set weren’t left for post.

After the rough cut, she worked relentlessly, overseeing every detail, syncing tasks.

Post-shooting, Chu Zu wasn’t worried about Sang Zhe.

Zhou Lily was a great role model.

No wonder women understand women best.

Good.

Chu Zu only asked the system: “What’s Lu Chulin getting bashed for today?” and “Any word on Zhou Shengzheng? Still hiding?”

The system couldn’t track Zhou Shengzheng, only that he was invited as a guest presenter at this year’s Huaying Film Festival.

But it vividly narrated Lu Chulin’s bashing live.

The little yellow chick held grudges.

Back at the care facility, Chu Zu got frequent calls from Zhou Ji, crying that his sister was possessed, begging someone to intervene.

Zhou Ji called Zhou Lily and Li Qiya lunatics.

Rare breaks were spent in meetings, meetings, meetings.

The film wasn’t out, yet they were studying Huaying Award trends.

Bad enough they researched, but they pinned him in the meeting room, saying it wasn’t right to overwork the secretary for notes—so use the handy sidekick.

Zhou Ji said he was wasting away, swearing never to touch his sister’s films again, sticking to investments.

Soon, Chu Zu joined the film’s promotion.

It was winter.

Chu Zu took leave, meeting the main crew.

Yu Lin’s gloom practically spilled from his hat brim.

He’d gone back to raising chickens and farming, ballooning again.

His agent said, you can’t do this—promo audiences won’t know you’re the supporting lead.

Then sent him back to fitness classes.

Yu Lin could train for roles but loathed non-shooting tasks.

Chu Zu couldn’t resist, sneaking him a drumstick at the gathering.

During promo, the crew doted on their male lead, almost coddling.

When he answered simple questions, the crew clapped like he’d recited a poem perfectly.

For trickier questions, drumstick-debt Yu Lin stepped up.

Not answering himself, he used his industry-honed skill, tossing out, “Director Zhou considered that too,” passing it to Zhou Lily.

She grabbed the mic, speaking fluently.

“I’m like a mascot now.”

Chu Zu told the system, “If I stir up trouble, they won’t rush up, block me, and yell ‘come at me,’ will they?”

System: “…Hard to say, really.”

It clicked: “Wait, you’re planning to stir… You’re making your move?”

“Zhou Ji said his sister and Li Qiya are already prepping for awards. Even if they don’t win, with their skills, they’ll snag a nomination.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Zhou Shengzheng’s a Huaying judge, right?”

“Right.”

“Since Zhou Lily’s still his daughter on paper, he can’t judge this time, but he’s a guest presenter. With Lu Chulin’s company mess long past, I can’t think of a better stage for his comeback. He’ll return.”

“Sounds like it.”

Chu Zu said: “And I can’t think of a better stage to stir trouble.”

“He wants art, fame, and face—on what grounds?”

The system heard the host’s cold laugh: “Does he deserve it?”