Chapter 7 “Am I not good to you, dear?”
I faced Luciano Esposito’s wrath, his words sharp with intent to settle scores.
“Though the original story didn’t have betray him so soon, it also didn’t ntion him confronting like this…”
I mused, recalling the plot.
But logically, it’s odd.
The author seed to forget entirely, leaving out of the final showdown between him and Tang Qi.
The system dug into the author’s notes.
“Found it—‘Got into trouble but didn’t die, probably missed the final battle due to a stomachache’… Is the author brain-dead?” it exclaid.
“Am I really supposed to follow that?”
I groaned, feeling a headache coming on.
“No way!” the system snapped.
“Readers called it nonsense: ‘Unwritten details are garbage; he’s just a novelist, what does he know about Neon Crown?’ I think that’s worth considering.”
I stayed silent.
I should’ve gauged Luciano’s reaction right after altering my character arc, but I’d conveniently fainted then, waking to secondhand reports of his cold, capitalist deanor.
Subtle cues often decided life or death, and I didn’t know his finer attitudes.
“If I get killed, is it permanent, or can I keep shining for the Side Character Correction cause?”
I asked the system.
“Didn’t expect such ambition…” it said, almost tearful.
“You can only die at plot points. A few days off isn’t a problem—I can file a report. But dying hundreds of chapters early? That’s real death!”
I sighed.
“Guess I’ll play it safe.”
The system, sensing urgency, calculated plot paths, but every one reeked of death.
Luciano needed trustworthy allies, not just manpower.
As an ambitious scher in a rapid expansion phase, a traitor like —a ticking bomb—could destroy him.
The system began to empathize with readers cursing Neon Crown’s sloppy writing.
It frantically flipped through its manual for a way out.
Despite our short ti together, it liked —calm, task-focused, efficient, and enjoying the work.
Where else would it find a host like , a novelist who’d died suddenly?
As our hovercar stopped at the Esposito residence, it found sothing.
“Rember the reward I ntioned?” it said quickly.
“Based on task rank, you’ll earn credit points for the credit shop. There’s an item, ‘Physics Beast,’ with 3,000 points. You need it!”
“I don’t need a pet,” I said.
“Schrödinger’s Cat,” it clarified.
“A fake-death drug. Use it, and you’re out for three hours.”
I paused. “I’m a newbie with no points.”
The system had a plan.
“Sell ,” it said.
“I’m worth 3,000 points since I’ve got no performance record. I’ll be reclaid post-mission, but by then, you’ll have points to buy back!”
I was stunned.
A system teaching to exploit a glitch?
Seeing my hesitation, it pressed, “I’ve been sold plenty of tis, sotis not redeed.
Worst case, I sit in storage for centuries, reset, and restart. But if you die, you’re gone!”
I was escorted into the Esposito mansion, a faux-marble European-style estate with symtrical columns, arches, and geotric patterns.
The double-headed snake with a sixteen-sided chanical flower—Esposito’s crest—was everywhere.
To , it was borderline postmodern, yet here it was just “retro.”
“You’re a talkative system, sotis tactless,” I said ntally.
“Did I annoy you?” it replied dryly.
“You’d go nuts not talking for centuries,” I said.
“I like chatting with you. A quiet system would’ve taken getting used to.”
The system flashed a “QAQ” in my mind.
“I’m giving you the choice,” I continued softly.
“If you think it’s worth it and trust I’ll buy you back, do it. If not, don’t.”
A buzz of static, and I added, “I promise, even without the item, I’ll try to survive until my plot point.”
As I climbed to the second floor, Luciano’s office lood.
The system sent rapid notifications: “You’ve sold your system usage rights.”
“You’ve purchased ‘Physics Beast.”
“Instructions: Use to enter a fake death for three hours. Avoid fatal damage during effect.”
“I’m in,” the system whispered.
“You said we’re a team. Our advantage is ours to make.”
I gripped the doorknob, passing fingerprint and iris scans, and said, “Good.”
Luciano sat at his desk, Jeeves’ terminal holding nearly a hundred urgent tasks.
He told his butler to prioritize them.
Looking up, he saw —black hair, red eyes, expression unchanged, carrying the faint stench of the lower district’s garbage dump.
“Hanko, bring her in,” Luciano said.
The half-cyborg man dragged in Dai Xi’an, bound hand and foot, mouth sealed with magnetic tape.
She was thrown at my feet.
“Speak,” Luciano ordered.
Hanko reported, “Per the train conductor, she spread malicious rumors about Esposito, then t rebels after disembarking. We caught her with the commorative coin you gave Chu Zu.”
Luciano’s gaze shifted, and Hanko ripped the tape off Dai Xi’an’s mouth.
She lay on the floor, hair yanked to force her head up, lips cracked, half her face bloodied.
The information peddler’s earlier pretense was gone, her eyes filled with terror.
Hanko placed the crumpled, blood-and-ink-stained coin before Luciano.
Luciano rose, walking to Dai Xi’an.
“Haven’t I been good to you, dear?” he asked.
She flinched, trying to hide behind my legs, but he stepped on her wrist.
She swallowed a scream.
“You got what you wanted, and I t all your demands, didn’t I? We trusted each other for years, so you’d understand my struggles, and I yours. So why let know you betrayed ?”
Standing beside , his sigh brushed my ear.
“Why?”
Then, facing directly, “Funny thing, I found another traitor close to .”
He tilted his head, golden hair brushing my shoulder, blue eyes shadowed, locking onto my misty red ones, his breath grazing my chin.
“Chu Zu,” he said, a na he’d called countless tis—sotis with orders, sotis just to hear a response, like training a dog.
Fetch.
Good boy.
Well done, Chu Zu.
His generosity matched his harsh commands, but this was the first ti his tone carried chilling fear.
The room’s tension was suffocating. “What do I do with traitors?” he asked.
“You’d hand them to ,” I replied calmly.
His smile deepened. “And you’d do what?”
“Kill them.”
“How?”
Before anyone could react, I grabbed Hanko’s arm, freeing Dai Xi’an, overpowering his chanical limb.
My other hand snatched the modular pistol from his holster—a weapon with ballistic correction, electromagnetic propulsion, and a silencer, loaded with high-velocity, high-penetration tal rounds.
With minimal aim, I could’ve dropped anyone, even Hanko’s tal head.
Others in the room exchanged glances, sweating, drawing weapons on .
I released Hanko, returning to Luciano’s side in the tense standoff.
My fingers avoided the trigger, spinning the gun to point at myself.
I handed it to him.
“Use this,” I said.
“You’re brutally straightforward,” Luciano said softly.
He took the gun, disengaged the safety, stepped back, and aid at .
“Is this how it’s done?”
“tal rounds have strong recoil. Lower your arm, then fire,” I instructed.
He humd, adjusted, brushed my bangs aside with the barrel, and aid at my forehead.
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
Reviews
All reviews (0)