A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 37: “The Author Hopes Her Little Girl Can Have, and Grow.”

The last time Chu Zu was surrounded by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen was at Luciano’s funeral.

But this time, the guests were far more at ease, the hierarchy of status subtly concealed.

The venue split into two: a spacious ballroom for mingling, and round tables set for dining.

Cream-white tablecloths with gold trim held only center floral arrangements, menus, place cards, and silver cutlery.

Servers placed bread baskets and butter dishes table by table.

Chu Zu asked the System, “Did I eat dinner?”

System: “I think not?”

“No wonder I can’t move seeing bread—I just missed dinner?”

The system searched quickly.

“You only had breakfast.”

It said, “You’re a star caregiver at the nursing home. Many elders demand you specifically, booking you from morning to night. At lunch break, you coaxed a fasting grandpa to eat, skipping your own meal.”

“No way.”

Chu Zu said, “Plan my time. People need care, but I need three meals.”

The system agreed readily, “Got it!”

“And Sang Zhe.”

Chu Zu roughly knew his and the Zhou siblings’ paths but hadn’t asked about Sang Zhe.

“What’s she been up to?”

System dug in, “After graduating from Curtis Institute—”

“Recently,” Chu Zu stressed.

Easy find—System yanked the timeline forward, “Last year, she’s been touring. She reserved tickets for each show, but you were too busy to go.”

“Tonight’s gala ends, tomorrow she’s off traveling to relax.”

Zhou Lily, arm linked with Chu Zu, began greeting people.

She didn’t need him to speak, introducing him briefly before steering conversations, shielding him from entanglement.

His striking eyes drew glances, but no more.

Zhou Lily, when not sharp, maxed out social skills, keeping talks flowing.

Perfume and cologne wafted, dizzying.

Chu Zu stayed quiet, a pendant to Zhou Lily, while confirming work with the System.

“I recall your synopsis—the novel starts with her traveling, then love at first sight with Lu Chulin?”

System: “Yes.”

“She toured nearly a year, left me tickets, I didn’t go. Meets me the night she returns, then travels the next day? That’s logical?”

System: “…”

The original text didn’t mention Zhou Lily or Zhou Ji here.

It only noted Sang Zhe stunning the crowd, with industry and non-industry folks offering connections.

But Sang Zhe, poor at socializing, didn’t respond, leaving early for her trip.

“If she doesn’t travel… the book’s gone!”

The system tensed.

It thought her not traveling was fine—best avoid the cursed male lead, let her play piano.

This job was already over scope; it and Chu Zu weren’t chasing grades.

It believed the host could shine next time, crushing it!

But if Silent Peach and Plum’s plot vanished, forget Sang Zhe’s fragility—they’d be yanked back for penalties.

Big penalties!

Per rules, Chu Zu would likely be fired for subjective errors, no severance.

Wait…

The system realized Chu Zu was bound to it after sudden death.

If fired—

“No, no, no.”

The chick squawked, flapping.

“I’d get reset, hung on the mall 3,500+ times—I don’t care. But you can’t…”

“I’ll find a way, hold on, I’ll figure it out.”

Chu Zu saw it frantically, feathers flying, asking softly, “Three thousand five hundred times?”

The system, busy handling the crisis, eager to be his load-bearing wall, didn’t hear.

Chu Zu didn’t press.

…

Zhou Ji mingled solo, clinking champagne with a lady, occasionally glancing at Zhou Lily.

His “I’m known for shutting people down” claim didn’t match his smooth, natural glide among elites, charming all, making them laugh.

Jiang Zu’s gaze lingered on the tables, his over-1.9-meter height standing out, neck craned across the dance floor, a head above the crowd.

Zhou Lily tugged him down, “You didn’t eat well again?”

Jiang Zu looked away, not meeting her eyes, clearly guilty.

He didn’t lie, so he stayed silent.

With Zhou Ji, Zhou Lily would’ve smiled and cursed softly, unheard unless close, mistaken for sibling bonding.

But she never spoke harshly to Jiang Zu.

She’d shaded Zhou Ji through him, but found Jiang Zu didn’t catch the subtext, defending Zhou Ji, saying not to scold him, he had pride after years of it.

Zhou Ji climbed that pole, whining his pride was murdered.

He’d clung to Jiang Zu, urging him to school his harsh sister.

“Dinner starts soon, eat what you want. These folks either don’t eat out or are new, too shy to eat. Ignore them.”

Arm on Jiang Zu’s, Zhou Lily got two non-alcoholic drinks.

“Don’t expect much, taste’s meh. If not full, grab bread from the servers, or I’ll take you for a late-night snack after.”

Seeing Jiang Zu’s focused gaze, she grinned, “Or, go with Sang Zhe? She’s performing, probably hasn’t eaten.”

“Not eating’s no good.”

Mentioning Sang Zhe, Jiang Zu finally spoke, worried.

“She toured for a year, skipping meals would wear her out. She texted she’s taking care, lying? She shouldn’t lie to me.”

Zhou Lily laughed at his “she, she, she,” “You skipped meals too, hiding it? You’re no better.”

Jiang Zu: “…”

“The stylist was supposed to bring snacks. Zhou Ji, that idiot… he didn’t say anything weird, right?”

She meant if Zhou Ji pressured him about tonight’s importance, not to mess up.

Her brother, riled lately, went brainless, cortex smooth, no wrinkles.

Seeing their faint red slap marks earlier, Zhou Lily was exhausted, picturing a golden retriever and a beagle.

Good news: the retriever, though unkempt, looked worked to death, but tall and handsome, held up appearances.

Bad news: the beagle was her blood kin, inheritance-bound, un-ditchable.

Jiang Zu recalled, repeating Zhou Ji’s male star critique verbatim to Zhou Lily.

Zhou Lily: “…”

Zhou Lily: “Anyway, don’t mind. Eat, drink. I might step away mid-gala. Stay put, smile if someone talks, don’t reply—they’ll shut up. After that, I’ll take you to Sang Zhe.”

Jiang Zu nodded obediently, “Okay, I’ll listen to Sister Lily.”

Zhou Lily wanted to pat his head.

She’d done it before his graduation; he didn’t mind, bending with squinted eyes for her to ruffle.

Retrievers were great, unlike beagles.

Not now—director and lead needed poise.

As the gala began, guests sat.

The host appeared briefly, then left.

With the host’s exit, many esteemed art figures left gracefully, but some stayed.

They waited for Sang Zhe.

Zhou Lily sat, lips curled, always in top form.

She glanced at Jiang Zu.

Funny—he was tall, but his height was all legs, so seated, he seemed shorter than other 1.8-meter men.

Jiang Zu was… immersed in bread.

He ignored the stage’s gibberish, the applause for names, nothing more important than his bread.

At a major gala, seating was meticulous.

The main table held titans—blow it up, and the cultural industry would collapse.

Not exaggerated.

Not just artists, but national cultural, tourism, and heritage protection figures.

Zhou Lily recognized the clapping man in the center—the UNESCO China office secretary.

She and Jiang Zu sat front-row, not central.

They got this spot due to her recent investor.

Thinking of the investor, Zhou Lily’s head ached.

He was great—generous, sharing connections, with platforms cutting her PR and analysis workload.

But his daughter was… ambitious.

Zhou Lily and Zhou Ji saw it differently.

Zhou Ji thought her a fool, wanting everything, stirring trouble when unsatisfied.

Zhou Lily admired her.

She saw ambition.

All legal means were paths to it.

Take the heat, bear grudges—rewards were real.

On the same project, they vied for control from different angles.

Zhou Lily liked such women.

She just hated her wanting to swap the lead for her company’s guy.

Non-negotiable—Zhou Lily crafted the script for Jiang Zu over years.

Swap the lead, might as well swap the director.

Correspondingly, Zhou Lily wasn’t… interested in Sang Zhe.

She met her through Jiang Zu.

Visiting the orphanage, she saw the girl at the piano. Jiang Zu, among kids, snapped to attention, greeted her, and introduced them.

Zhou Lily was stunned, thinking the orphanage hid dragons.

After days with Sang Zhe, her interest waned.

They were incompatible.

Zhou Lily, seasoned domestically and abroad, met many pianists, and broadly, artists.

Commercial or not, academic or not, traditional or boundary-pushing—they walked art’s narrow path with ambitions.

Money, legacy, or academic heights.

But Sang Zhe’s piano was just her.

Her personality was… reserved.

As a hobby, fine. As a career in a cutthroat circle, disastrous.

People marveled at her music’s emotion, but not her feelings—only her talent mattered.

Her cries rarely got answers.

Undeniably, Sang Zhe’s path was smooth for her position.

She had talent-valuing parents, toured right after Curtis, with critics and experts packing venues.

Back home, her first stage was this gala.

Look at those staying, not socializing.

They waited for her piano.

But could a girl only knowing piano handle what it represented?

Zhou Lily wasn’t sure.

As lights dimmed, she glanced at Jiang Zu.

Chandeliers shadowed the ceiling mural.

The performance neared, the announcer left, the red curtain dropped, and guest chatter faded.

As the curtain shook, a black piano emerged.

A white-dressed girl glowed under spotlights, stars sparkling in Jiang Zu’s eyes.

At the orphanage, he’d watched her play like this.

“Remember, I’ll find you later.”

Zhou Lily wasn’t sure he heard, lost in Sang Zhe’s piano notes.

*

“Sang Zhe seems different.”

Chu Zu told the System, “Her vibe or the setting? She doesn’t feel like the orphanage pianist.”

System, seeking redemption paths, replied, “Girls change at eighteen. You’ve changed too, handsome.”

Chu Zu got to work mode.

“Don’t multitask. Pull Sang Zhe’s recent years, now.”

The chick, beak frothing, complied.

Chu Zu read slowly, chewing each word.

The system watched his demands while handling its own tasks.

The obvious issue: would Sang Zhe travel?

Likely not.

As Chu Zu said, after not seeing friends, she’d stay a few days post-return before relaxing.

System, faster than Chu Zu, figured she might invite him along.

No male lead then.

Sang Zhe cared for friends.

During college, she texted, asking about school, friends.

At his graduation, she took leave, sat in the convention center, clapping louder than Zhou Ji as the dean tasseled.

System crunched, picking the most feasible plan.

Have Jiang Zu join her trip, meeting Lu Chulin.

Even if no love at first sight—System hoped not—they’d hit the plot point.

After, everything was negotiable, avoiding the book’s premature end.

But this involved major changes to the leads and second lead, needing author talks.

“Host,” a system called Jiang Zu.

Jiang Zu: “Mhm, listening.”

The system shared its plan.

“I need to talk to the author, not just your plan… apologize for me.”

The system froze.

Did the host misspeak?

Who apologizes to whom?

The author’s flawed male lead caused this mess.

The host didn’t overhaul much, backtracked only to clarify his arc for work.

Why apologize?!

System: “Why…?”

“I thought the author couldn’t write arcs, but she’s just bad at realistic male roles.”

Chu Zu said, “Her grasp of female mindsets isn’t bad, empathizing granularly, letting them gain.”

Too much for the System—post-Lu Lin, it recalculated “human.”

But eager, it searched, from papers to clickbait, loading big data.

It scrubbed aggressive slang.

“Like Zhou Lily.”

Chu Zu said, “I sensed it earlier—her arc’s too complete, more than mine or Lu Chulin’s.”

System: “She’s why Zhou Shengzheng favored Lu Chulin, who later supported him, setting his good-guy image.”

“If the author wanted Lu Chulin to be grateful…”

Chu Zu paused, feeling odd saying this.

“She didn’t need Zhou Lily’s clear outcome. Keeping it vague like Lu Chulin’s past would do. Her clarity dims his high morals—Zhou Shengzheng’s a lousy dad.”

“But she let Zhou Lily achieve her pursuit, tough as it was, showing her strength. She’s wholly independent, achieving everything herself.”

“Right.”

System got Zhou Lily but not Sang Zhe, the female lead.

“By that logic, Sang Zhe should get better treatment. Pairing her with Lu Chulin… it’s not like Zhou Lily’s success!”

The system, wary of log checks, was tactful—ignoring its past crude remarks.

Bluntly, Lu Chulin’s value to Sang Zhe didn’t match Zhou Lily’s achievements.

Chu Zu teased, “You’re thinking like me.”

The system flapped shyly.

“So I didn’t see it earlier. My hate has layers; meddling in their romance is shallow.”

Though not absolute, romance novels’ female lead perspective likely drew female readers.

No one disliked an unlucky but kind, hardworking girl—readers naturally got her.

Not needing identical perspectives, empathy didn’t require matching experiences.

Realizing her fragility was real, you’d ponder her pain.

Few men could do this; women seemed born with it.

With Sang Zhe’s full background and Zhou Lily’s stark contrast, Chu Zu confirmed.

Sang Zhe loved piano, but as a career, others pushed her up, binding her to it.

Her childhood lacks surfaced.

The director’s love was genuine but equal to all kids.

Her foster parents’ care tied to her talent; her writings about them always circled the piano.

Jiang Zu was kind, but his nature made him kind to all.

He wouldn’t always stay; she’d walk alone sometimes.

Take the System.

Past hosts didn’t aim to harm it, but no results meant no results.

At best, effort kept it unsold.

It could work, but its habit was selling itself at trouble—not healthy.

Chu Zu flipped its world.

Lu Chulin did too for Sang Zhe.

Her life finally got baseless favor, lasting companionship beyond piano.

That’s her needed value.

No matter why she was insecure, actions and words hurt her truly, so readers vented on Jiang Zu.

They might not realize their anger stemmed more from her plight than his meddling.

Few might analyze their thoughts’ root, for a reason mentioned.

The internet changed much, including reader thinking.

You sense something off, see long, incisive comments pinpointing views.

Click further, many agree, sharp terms coined to sum it up.

You copy-paste, echoing others’ thoughts.

“I’m tool number two, Lu Chulin’s tool number one. Even with a flawless male lead, saying hurtful things, I’d still get hate.”

“But Sang Zhe needs to step out; someone must scrape her poison. The author hopes her girl can have, and grow.”

Chu Zu said, “Per the original, Lu Chulin’s too heavy-handed. He might not clear the poison but break her bones.”

The system was stunned.

“You… really get romance now!”

Then, hesitant, “Wait, can a male lead be a tool in romance?”

“Don’t know, just my feelings.”

Chu Zu sighed, earnest.

“So the author’s intent’s fine. Readers’ hate comes from kindness. Info gaps in expression and reception are normal.”

System: “True… they mean well…”

“So when asking about the plan, apologize for me. Can I go by myself?”

System: “I’ll try applying, but likely no. The boss said we’re middlemen, need margins. You going directly cuts our kickback.”

Chu Zu: “…Don’t tell me that, too shocking.”

“No biggie, pretend you didn’t hear.”

The system cared less about the boss than its host.

The boss was harsh, paid no extra—who liked their boss?

Virus-infected?

It reflected, “I should apologize too… got heated earlier, bad attitude. But she never snapped, always discussed solutions…”

“You don’t know how tough Neon Crown’s author was…”

Chu Zu praised reflexively, encouragement in his soul: “You’re sharp, snagged royalties from him.”

The chick, easily swayed, puffed up, head high, tail up.

“More plans after your talk.”

Chu Zu sorted the job, relieved.

“I said, a novel sellable for film rights has chops. Just hidden deep, in my blind spot.”

Like Chu Zu, the System’s comfort was reflexive, “Not your fault.”

Less eloquent, genderless, it chose a shota voice for Chu Zu’s fondness for Sidney.

It summed, “Men are the issue.”

Adding, “Not you.”

After a beat, “Nor Zhou Ji.”

“Your teachers from school, college too.”

“And your therapist, eye doctor, colleagues—they’re good.”

“Huh… There are so many exceptions.”

Chu Zu laughed, “It’s fine, keep excluding. Don’t forget my apology request.”

System: “Got it!”

Work settled, Chu Zu focused on Sang Zhe’s performance.

Barely half a minute in, someone took Zhou Lily’s seat.

“You’re Director Zhou’s championed lead?”

The suited young man, shirt collar embroidered, hair meticulously styled, looked early twenties but made up to seem older, nearly Chu Zu’s age.

The system was off with the author, Zhou Lily gone, Chu Zu had no one to ask.

Following her advice, he smiled, not planning to engage.

But the man didn’t take her “back off” cue, his next barbed words piercing his naive intent.

Glancing disdainfully at bread crumbs, he said, “So fixated on Teacher Sang Zhe, does Director Zhou know you’re switching thighs to hug?”