A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 47: “Peach and Plum Speak Not, Yet a Path Forms Beneath.”

In entertainment news, the Zhou of Director Zhou was Zhou Lily’s Zhou.

In social news, the Zhou of Mr. Zhou was Zhou Shengzheng’s Zhou.

At the celebration banquet, the Zhou who wailed, clung to Jiang Zu, lamenting missing the scene, only to be flung out by Zhou Lily, was Zhou Ji’s Zhou.

Zhou Ji was genuinely upset, hanging up on Zhou Shengzheng’s assistant in a daze.

Word spread that Zhou Shengzheng was hospitalized, yet neither child visited.

The old man tried stirring public opinion, playing the moral card, but Zhou Lily and Zhou Ji ignored it.

What illness?

So delicate.

Weren’t they helping him overcome setbacks?

He’d endure.

Otherwise, how’d he face the police?

Moreover, online sentiment didn’t follow Zhou Shengzheng’s team’s script.

Even leaking photos of him frail in a hospital bed failed to garner sympathy.

Huaying Film Festival’s ratings this year were absurdly high.

Curious film buffs dug up old news effortlessly.

Everything had traces.

Zhou Shengzheng’s wife’s depression coincided with Octopus.

Where was Zhou Lily when her mother was abroad for treatment?

All reports about Zhou Lily were traceable, including her near-drowning incident.

Back then, tabloids focused on Zhou Shengzheng’s messy private life, now serving as evidence.

Piece by piece, like a puzzle, the truth was distant but Zhou Lily’s hatred for Zhou Shengzheng was clear.

Not to mention, Zhou Shengzheng wasn’t just morally flawed—he was a vile capitalist.

So why play pitiful?

Your daughter, in her prime, achieved what you couldn’t, cut ties with you, and you’re mad?

Zhou Lily promptly contacted finance and lawyers.

Since adulthood, she’d kept accounts of every cent she and Zhou Ji took from Zhou Shengzheng, clear as day.

Young and naive, she’d planned to throw the money in his face, telling him to get lost.

But he was a lawbreaker.

His properties remained in his name, never transferred to his kids.

Her mother’s inheritance was separate.

Zhou Lily had lawyers treat prior funds as loans, with interest.

If investigations implicated her, she’d cooperate, pay what’s due, apologize if needed.

After this, Zhou Shengzheng would be a stranger, only tied by court-ordered alimony.

While Zhou Lily handled matters, Zhou Ji seethed, blaming Li Qiya.

He believed without her cunning PR, he wouldn’t have missed his life’s greatest moment.

How many great moments did he get?!

Li Qiya ignored him, settling scores with Yu Lin.

Yu Lin’s agent, hair practically exploding when scolding him, now defended him to the boss.

“He’s just an uneducated chicken farmer, not even good at it. Don’t stoop to his level, Sister Li.”

Yu Lin heard what he wanted: “I go back to raising chickens?”

The agent snapped, turning: “Shut up, you! Can’t you be your gloomy mushroom? Adults are talking!”

Yu Lin: “Oh.”

The banquet was on the top floor of Li Qiya’s company.

They took a group photo at the start, now scattered in twos and threes, drinking or settling scores.

Four trophies stood prominently.

At first, people snapped selfies with them, posting online.

Later, they cared less—champagne was worth more.

The team endured much since the project began.

Talent mattered, but sweat and persistence were just as crucial.

Working with people from discord to unity, completing a celebrated project—what could be happier?

The lively atmosphere steamed in the air.

Amid the buzz, Jiang Zu stood apart, on the phone with Sang Zhe.

With time zones, Sang Zhe timed her message perfectly, congratulating him, asking when he was free for a call.

The celebrated best actor remained refreshingly gentle, eyes curving behind glasses, the breeze lifting his black bangs, carrying fairy tales from beyond time he refused to let fade.

The call connected, neither spoke.

Across oceans and moments, piano notes rose through the receiver, drifting in the warm evening breeze.

Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No.1.

The piece Sang Zhe played for her sole audience at the orphanage.

Still evoking quiet nights awaiting shooting stars, anticipating long summers.

Listen closely, something hid in the notes.

A miracle, unbound by sunrises and moonfalls, an immortal youth.

*

After the commission, Chu Zu exhaled deeply.

Reality-based tasks were far more taxing than fiction.

“I planned to press Zhou Shengzheng about Lu Chulin in the post-ceremony interview. He’s a minority shareholder—why’s he the one scrambling…”

Chu Zu chuckled, “But Lu Chulin moved faster, even notarizing reports.”

The system was checking copyright payment dates and prior shares.

Multitasking, it replied: “He should’ve done it sooner. The company’s structure was flawed. A college grad, in entertainment for so long, only now blowing it open, hmph…”

Chu Zu didn’t dwell on Lu Chulin, asking: “If you found a structural flaw, would you report it to the boss or watch first?”

The little yellow chick answered crisply: “I check for bugs regularly, screen free software for viruses. Rest assured, I’m your sturdiest wall!”

Its beady eyes lit up: “Payments arrived, all in! The author paid fast! We even reimbursed our Tianyancha costs!”

Brimming with wealth’s joy, it said, “Feedback from the email’s in. Let’s see…”

“The boss, after consideration, denied direct author talks… I think they’re eyeing kickbacks, hmph!”

The chick added, “I found the analysis post you wanted. Read now?”

Chu Zu didn’t reply.

The system asked again before he said: “Read.”

The system, hoarding gushing Jiang Zu quotes in a folder, pulled the requested post.

…

[All subjective, no objective review, curse if you disagree]

I’m not a book fan, just read it.

Too many novels like this, read and forgotten.

Only recalled after Silent Peach and Plum’s drama aired.

Dropped the drama after two episodes.

The story’s fanbase owes 80% to the author’s writing.

Then I saw the movie.

Call turning a romance novel into a non-romantic youth film a crime.

But you can’t deny, from script to shooting, it’s top-tier.

Heard the character tweaks were by screenwriter Chu Zu.

I checked, found no info on this teacher.

But he’s a genius at observing people.

!!! Spoilers below. If you plan to watch, exit now !!!

[NoScallionsNoYears] | Posted 2024-05-20 14:15:39

For example, compared to the novel, Lu Chulin has the biggest changes, with subtler details.

Post-orphanage, he did charity, volunteered at homes, but never returned to his.

Partly avoidance—he didn’t dare face Jiang Zu or the dean.

Despite being a mature, wealthy, high-status adult, he’s a flustered kid facing mistakes, hiding.

Also, I think he hated the orphanage at eighteen.

Don’t know if others feel this.

If I lived unhappily in a city, leaving, I’d call it rotten, citing my life.

Conversely, if I was happy there, I’d cite myself too.

Later, I realized I wasn’t describing the city objectively, but the me of that time.

So I wonder, Lu Chulin?

He hated the orphanage then—what did he really hate?

Realizing this, seeing him selectively forget but still gaze at the sky from rooftops, took on new meaning.

How many return to where they lost something, seeking it back?

Can’t find it, impossible.

He’s no longer eighteen-year-old Lu Lin.

Subconsciously revisiting, wanting to hug old friends, is chasing a marked boat.

Didn’t he know that’s foolish?

He didn’t hate the orphanage, just used harsh words to demean that time, those people.

He lied to himself, as if it’d make eighteen-year-old Lu Lin less hateful.

Jiang Zu’s uniqueness means Lu Chulin can never get the “forgiveness” he seeks.

Perhaps that’s his punishment.

At the end, a summer breeze swept through me.

I wanted to ask Lu Chulin.

On that tiny rooftop, hearing aid off, facing the city’s blocked nightscape.

Can you still see the freedom and future you wanted at eighteen?

[NoScallionsNoYears] | Posted 2024-05-20 14:15:39

Then Sang Zhe.

She’s at the outermost edge of the conflicts.

Special education schools had subsidies, fee waivers, and policy support.

Her talent let her leave the orphanage at sixteen, entering another class.

Sang Zhe matured earlier, though soft, doing what others said—study, life, work half-managed—but I think she matured faster than the orphanage boys.

The dean ensured basic needs, teachers pushed academic progress.

Only Sang Zhe faced what we know: others’ “life and world advice.”

Not unique.

Harsher terms—many kids face adults imposing their will, overwriting another’s world.

I won’t say it’s wrong or right.

But in my view, ignoring someone’s wishes, imposing cognitive sweeps, is indifference to their feelings.

Teens can’t discern.

By the time they do, their world’s been eroded.

Results are clear.

Either full anger from betrayal’s pain, less severe if from strangers.

Or half-submissive, half-grateful stability, losing the will to explore independently.

If life goes smoothly, it’s a path.

But Sang Zhe’s personality and talent mean, in future confusion and inner turmoil, she neither rages nor complies lifelong, struggling more than most.

Lu Chulin, unguided, easily strayed.

Sang Zhe, constrained, couldn’t find a path.

That’s why they’re core protagonists for discussion.

The film’s solution is idealistic yet real.

Some forgive, some help, but you must rely on yourself.

Jiang Zu and Zhou Lily’s help mattered, but only when Sang Zhe wrote to her parents, alone with her suitcase, stepping forward, did she find redemption.

So don’t give up.

At eighteen, twenty-eight, thirty-eight, facing pain’s quagmire, confront it.

Confront it, chest high, repeating—I must save myself.

[NoScallionsNoYears] | Posted 2024-05-20 14:50:47

Lastly, Jiang Zu.

Honestly, not much to discuss (sorry for writing so much!).

When forum posts clamor, “Saw the invincible sunny big dog, I’m a student, give me one,” you get why the director limited his screen time.

In a film about teen struggles (my take), there’s a big golden retriever you can’t find in reality.

His role mirrors the novel’s male lead.

The novel’s Lu Chulin easily overcame “setbacks,” supporting the female lead—whether he did or not, I think the author aimed there.

Jiang Zu’s similar, but more believable, shaped by his experiences.

His start is his end.

Beyond PTSD, no setbacks mark him.

He’s optimistic, spreading it to everyone.

He listens quietly, knowing he’s not smart, avoiding “smart” advice.

He’s there where you look, like his chosen job.

He’s no doctor to cure you, but he’ll care for your physical and mental pain.

This transcends likability—it’s a universal emotional need.

So he can’t have much screen time, kept minimal, best as a symbol, an inner inspiration.

I even wondered, why did the world carve his beautiful eyes?

Leonard Cohen’s Anthem sings:

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

But no one can deny Jiang Zu’s importance.

Peach and plum speak not, yet a path forms beneath.

Peach and plum trees, silent, draw people with sweet fruit, forming a path below.

Who does it refer to?

[NoScallionsNoYears] | Posted 2024-05-20 14:55:53

…

The thread inevitably had heated remarks.

But the poster was good-tempered, responding restrainedly, seeking common ground.

Few complaints targeted the screenwriter, it being a film forum.

Chu Zu saw the author donated all Silent Peach and Plum earnings, except his share.

In an interview, the author admitted struggling while writing it, hitting a career bottleneck.

After early success, she believed in her talent, but later work struck her hard.

Subconsciously, she hoped someone could pull her from inner turmoil.

Writing romance, she thought love was the “easiest” fix.

After the film, she decided to pause writing.

Long at her desk, detached from the world, she wanted to explore, rediscover what she wished to tell, like her first book.

She apologized to fans expecting Silent Peach and Plum, promising to read every comment, reflect on every critique.

Thank you, and sorry.

System: “Wow, the author donated all earnings…”

Chu Zu, coldly: “I’m not donating. That’s my hard-earned credit points.”

System: “…I didn’t mean you should donate!”

Chu Zu: “Oh.”

Payments in, human and chick browsed the mall.

Chu Zu hesitated for two seconds on Catch Me If You Can, then passed.

Other hosting aids weren’t needed yet—better to choose precisely later.

Besides upgrading the system’s capacity, Chu Zu saw a consciousness-sea avatar customization service.

He asked: “What’s this?”

System: “Literal. Gives you a tangible form in consciousness, like me.”

Seeing Chu Zu’s interest, the system turned salesperson, pitching from all angles.

The consciousness is vast—don’t you want to explore it grounded?

It’s cheap, no loss, no scam.

We could team-build in the consciousness—hugs, lifts!

The last was its real aim—it wanted to snuggle the host forever!

Chu Zu checked the details page.

The mall’s flaw: endless creature options—animals, plants, insects, even amoebas—but no humans.

Chu Zu searched, puzzled: “Humans got kicked out of the animal kingdom?”

System, with ulterior motives: “Little black chick! Little black chick!”

Chu Zu: “The black chicken for soup?”

System: “…”

“No hosts ever customized avatars?”

“Some did, but they liked the mall’s options.”

The system pulled data.

“Fifty-six percent chose Tyrannosaurus rex, twelve percent humpback whale, eight percent evil silver tabby. The rest are too varied, uncounted.”

Chu Zu: “…Your hosts are quite unique, really.”

System, struggling: “I think a little black chick’s unique too… really…”

The mall offered blind boxes, refundable if unsatisfied.

Chu Zu picked one.

Instantly, a deadpan red-eyed black Shiba appeared in his consciousness.

It wasn’t quite a Shiba—soft big ears, unlike a Shiba’s fluffy tail, but the beady brows and face markings screamed Shiba.

The system was smitten.

Chu Zu moved to cancel.

The chick flailed, pinned by a paw, unable to rise.

“It’s a wolf! Noble black wolf! Cute… I mean, majestic! Fits you! Don’t cancel! Don’t cancel!”

Chu Zu sighed, released the paw, adjusted to the new form.

He asked: “Third task here?”

System: “I’m not leaving! You’ll cancel if I do!”

Chu Zu: “…”

“I knew it. Confirm the purchase, then I’ll go!”

Chu Zu clicked confirm, helpless: “Done.”

The chick hummed, getting to work.

Chu Zu unlocked Who Writes Diaries Seriously and logged.

[Second Task Silent Peach and Plum Concluded]

1. Confirmed Findings:

- Hosting aid is active, still controls the body.

- Each commission target resembles your appearance.

- Boss noticed reader forum issues.

- Film forum has no timeline errors, samples too small to judge if coincidental.

- Forum and task time flow varies, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, currently sequential.

- The Side Character Correction System didn’t alter the novel's ending.

- Author interaction requested at start, denied at end, likely deliberate delay.

- You’re a liberal arts, science, art student; uneducated yet schooled, with 3,548 professions.

The boss showed no reaction—they can’t probe your past.

2. To Investigate:

- Reader forum timeline issues.

- System initialized 3,500+ times, coincidence?

- Boss locked forums to fix timeline or noticed you know?

- Mall avatars alter perception—system’s form from this?

- System’s true nature?

Some answers found, many questions remain.

No rush, take it slow.]

Locking the diary, the system waited.

Not bored, it shopped dizzily, tossing next-task items into the cart, awaiting the host’s call.

Task in hand, the chick skipped scams, embracing honesty as a chicken’s creed.

Studying the task, it brimmed with confidence, sure it’d fix Silent Peach and Plum’s flaws!

It introduced: “This task’s a fictional fantasy worldview, male lead leveling-up flow!”

Chu Zu nodded: “Good.”

System: “This Side Character’s badass, crazy cool, unbeatable, never takes losses!”

Chu Zu saw it was hung up on last task’s “failure,” humoring it with exaggerated awe: “Really?”

The chick giggled.

“And he’s in the protagonist’s camp, rising and falling together!”

“Wow—”

“And you’re absolutely safe! The protagonist dies, you don’t!”

“…” Chu Zu couldn’t hold back, “Hear the dangerous stuff you’re saying? The protagonist dies, I don’t?”

The chick flopped into his palm, tilting its head: “Ever heard of a tyrant?”

Chu Zu: “…”

Some puzzles clicked.

Indeed badass, crazy cool, unbeatable, loss-free.

Chu Zu pressed: “You mean artistic metaphor or an actual historical tyrant?”

The system, citing the book’s seven-of-eight-line tyrant description, checked “tyrant” broadly, combining novel context, and affirmed: “A real historical tyrant!”

“The kind with absolute power, oppression, terror, upholding unjust laws for personal rule, crushing human rights!”

“The clearer you get, the more confused I am…” Chu Zu said.

“That kind of king’s safe? In the protagonist’s camp?”

Hesitant, he said, “The protagonist’s character is fine, right? Won’t the platform yank the book mid-fix for review?”

System, bluntly: “Protagonist’s fine, tyrant’s the issue, so they commissioned us.”

Chu Zu rubbed his temples, deciding not to dig too deep.

A fantasy world, no matter how tricky, couldn’t be that bad… right?

Direct plot injection loaded faster, letting him judge without bias.

“Fine, but don’t drop me at a critical node. I want to rest first.”

“Got it!” the system chirped.

With Silent Peach and Plum as reference, it was thrilled, confident, revealing the next novel’s title.

King of All Kings.