Chu Zu opened his eyes to find a young man kneeling before him, battered and covered in wounds.

The room he was in was small, no more than 10 square meters. There were no windows, just a rusty iron door, and the only source of light was a dim flickering ceiling lamp.

He felt a sharp, aching pain in his palms. He looked down and saw several fresh cuts across his hand, wounds caused by the rough, low-quality hemp rope clenched tightly in his grasp.

Suddenly, a cold, harsh male voice echoed in his ears.

“Chu Zu, you’ve wasted three whole days.”

“All I want is that set of codes. You’ve been interrogating him for three days and still haven’t gotten a single number?”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you what happens to useless things in the end.”

“Get me those codes. This is the last time I’ll warn you.”

With a sharp click, the transmission cut off.

Chu Zu instinctively reached up and touched his ear. A metal ring was embedded in the cartilage, completely immovable; any attempt to forcibly remove it would likely rip his ear clean off. A standard-issue, one-way communication device.

The young man enduring torture but refusing to speak, the cold voice delivering orders through the comms, and himself, caught in the middle, these were enough clues for Chu Zu to piece together the current plot point.

As if to confirm his thoughts, a mechanical voice echoed deep within his mind.

[Target novel 《Neon Crown》 successfully transmitted.]

[To save time, the storyline will be introduced through a combination of text and visual images. Please prepare yourself.]

[Loading original plot…]

The warning about preparation was meaningless; before Chu Zu could even react, the process had already begun.

He was a complete novice and didn’t fully understand how the loading worked. In the blink of an eye, a flood of text and images exploded in his mind.

《Neon Crown》 was a cyberpunk novel about the protagonist’s rise to power.

The main character, Tang Qi, grew up in the slums, orphaned and struggling to survive. One fateful encounter landed him a ticket to the Upper District.

On the train, he came face to face with a nobleman dressed in extravagant clothing, someone who looked exactly like him. Before he could process the shock, the train derailed. It exploded into flames, engulfing half of the Lower District’s slums in a massive inferno.

When he woke up, he had become Tang Qi, heir to the prestigious Tang family and the sole survivor of the accident.

From that day on, his life changed dramatically.

The Tang family controlled the majority of the Upper District’s biotech patents. If it was related to cyborg technology or genetic engineering, the Tang family had their hands in it..

Like most rise-to-power stories, his path followed a familiar arc.

Tang Qi found himself in a bizarre, neon-lit world, eventually joining the rebellion in the slums. After several battles against the upper-class capitalists, he emerged victorious, becoming the undisputed king of both worlds.

And Chu Zu’s first assigned character? A lapdog for the ruling elite.

[Target novel《Neon Crown》plot loading complete.]

The system’s mechanical voice continued, seamlessly injecting itself into Chu Zu’s mind.

[For your reference, here are some reader reviews:]

“I don’t get why this character exists. You can dumb down a villain, but don’t assume your readers are dumb, too. How hard is that to understand?”

“‘The villain wanted the codes, yet this idiot beat Tang Qi to death without asking a single question. Not only does he fail to move the plot forward, but then he turns around and helps Tang Qi kill the villain?”

“And if that wasn’t bad enough, after the villain is dead and Tang Qi is mopping up loose ends, this guy suddenly jumps out of nowhere, leading the remnants of the capitalist forces, to ‘avenge’ the villain?! Dude, YOU were the one who betrayed him!”’

“I lost it. I had to flip back 200 chapters just to find out who the hell Chu Zu even was. The author must be brain-dead. Who is this guy? How does he even qualify as the final boss?’’

…

The influx of information took some time to process. Once he finished digesting the plot, the system resumed its broadcast of scathing reader reviews. (INK HUB: “Scathing” indicates extremely negative and cutting reader reviews.)

The gap between the information dump and the reviews was so long that the system started playing an annoying beep-beep warning sound in Chu Zu’s head.

Chu Zu sighed and spoke to the system.
“Do you know who I am?”

The system hesitated, sensing a potential cognitive malfunction in its host. It quickly reaffirmed:

[You are Chu Zu, Marginal Character Correction Specialist.]

Chu Zu: “I’m a rookie.”

The system: “…”

Chu Zu: “The downside is I have no experience. The upside is I’m a fast learner and adaptable. Plus, I’m very team-oriented, so can you not play these creepy sound effects while I’m processing? I don’t want to ruin our team dynamic.”

The system fell silent for a moment before replying, [Understood.]

As a Marginal Character Correction Specialist, Chu Zu was indeed a rookie.

Roughly six months ago, he had died of overwork while rushing to meet a manuscript deadline. The moment he woke up, before he could say a single word, a job offer was shoved into his hands.

The Marginal Character Correction System, as the name suggests, was designed to fix hated side characters in novels.

The task of a correction specialist was both simple and difficult.

A specialist had to revise and perfect the character’s settings, play out their role in the story, and ensure their existence became logical and acceptable to readers, ultimately improving the novel’s overall completeness.

According to the system, most specialists were either authors or editors.

However, the performance of past specialists had been mediocre. Many cracked under the pressure or made critical mistakes that led to harsh penalties. Others simply quit voluntarily.

The system also emphasized that they highly respected human rights and would never force employees to do anything they didn’t want to do.

Upon joining, you were immediately a full-time employee with no probation period, and all benefits were top-notch. And if you ever wanted to quit? No three-month notice required, just immediate freedom..

Considering that Chu Zu had died before taking this job, “freedom” likely meant returning to the afterlife, no strings attached.

He took it in stride. He had been an author in his past life. He had already trained his mind to envision entire storylines while writing.

He was dead.
So why not just do the job?
The only problem was his acting skills.
Even if he forced himself to “perform,” who knew how bad his acting would be?

So, after joining the company, he spent six months taking acting lessons in the system’s virtual classroom.

Achieving Oscar-level skills in six months was unrealistic. Chu Zu had originally planned to study for another half a year to refine his skills, but the system couldn’t wait any longer.

[If you don’t intervene soon, another poor author will be driven insane by reader criticism. How about you take a look at the situation first? We can discuss further adjustments later?]

Chu Zu glanced at the current situation and sighed lightly.”Next time, don’t use deceitful sales tactics. Does this situation look like something we can ‘discuss later’?”

The system sheepishly backed down.[ “…Understood.]

Then, almost like an afterthought, the system added a very human-like: “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”]

Chu Zu sighed again.

The villain was furious, barking orders over the phone. The protagonist Tang Qi was forced to kneel before him, and according to the original plot, Tang Qi would be rescued by his companions in half an hour. Chu Zu would then face the full wrath of the villain.

After that, he would betray the villain, leak information to Tang Qi, leading to the villain’s death.

And later, he would march to his death under the excuse of “loyalty” and “revenge.”

In Chu Zu’s eyes, the author of 《Neon Crown》 hadn’t even tried to develop the character of “Chu Zu.”

When the villain needed a henchman, he was pulled out. Whatever he did to the protagonist, the villain would double it back on him for failing.

If the author had added a bit more depth, some dialogue showing “Chu Zu’s” resentment or something else, anything to give him a bit of presence, his reputation wouldn’t have been so bad.

Key traits: ruthless, traitorous, hypocritical.

All the elements were there, but they were shallow, lacking sufficient motivation. He drove major plot points but became increasingly dumb as the story progressed.

To fix his character… Where to start?

“Let’s start with Tang Qi… Readers think a side character is stupid largely because the protagonist thinks they’re stupid,” Chu Zu said. “I’m not familiar with the business, but aside from not being able to change key plot points, are there any other restrictions?”

The system: “You can’t change key lines of dialogue. When you must deliver specific lines, I’ll highlight them in red for you, so don’t worry. Also, you can only modify the settings of ‘Chu Zu.’ You can’t directly change how other characters perceive or interact with you.”]

“Got it.”

With that, Chu Zu clenched the rope, ignoring the pain.

This body wasn’t his, and when he swung the heavy rope, it felt effortless. Through his shirt, he could see the outline of well-defined muscles.

A stark contrast to his previous frail, overworked self.

It’s true what they say, having a strong body is everything. Even whipping someone doesn’t take much effort.

After a few heavy strikes, fresh blood began to seep from Tang Qi’s shoulders, face, and abdomen.

Still, Tang Qi didn’t make a sound. He raised his head, his eyes locking onto Chu Zu’s expressionless face.

“Does it hurt?” Chu Zu asked.

Tang Qi let out a cold laugh, his face pale but his eyes burning brighter.

Chu Zu lashed him again, his voice still cold. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Tang Qi spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

[“What are you thinking…?”] The system was confused.

Chu Zu: “He didn’t even spit in my face. The protagonist’s manners are too good.”

The system: [“…Not that! Weren’t you supposed to correct the protagonist’s stupidity?
Prejudice about ‘Chu Zu’? Why are you following the original plot, not doing anything useful, and just acting crazy?”]

Chu Zu paused for a moment. “Your wording is quite fierce.”

[“I borrowed it from the comments section. Just a little reference,” the system said, somewhat embarrassed.

Chu Zu’s diversion worked, and the system forgot to press further. While they chatted idly, Chu Zu had spent the entire half-hour whipping and questioning Tang Qi.

By his calculations, it was about time for Tang Qi to be rescued.

The way the door was “blown open” was very cyberpunk.

First, Chu Zu heard a deafening explosion. The entire room shook, dust falling from the ceiling as the hanging light swayed, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

A grappling hook shot through the air from the direction of the door, aimed straight at Chu Zu. The body instinctively dodged with minimal movement, but Chu Zu forced himself to resist the reflex and instead raised his hand to block.

Excruciating pain.

The rusty hook pierced straight through his palm.

His six months of acting training paid off. Chu Zu remained completely expressionless, not even a twitch of his brow.

The system immediately notified him: [“Tang Qi has been rescued!”]

Chu Zu glanced over. “Tang Qi” was still kneeling in the same spot.

He didn’t tend to his wounded hand, silently walking over to where “Tang Qi” was, and passed right through him.

Just like the still-closed iron door, what remained was merely a projection of “Tang Qi.”

Finding a button-sized projection device by the door, Chu Zu crushed it between his fingers.

The door instantly appeared wide open. The cell was underground, so even with the door open, there was no wind. This was why, in the original plot, “Chu Zu” would only realize something was wrong while continuing to “torture and interrogate.”

Chu Zu didn’t mind. He looked at his hands. “Alright, let Tang Qi figure it out himself. Next, I need to meet the boss. I’ll have to tweak my character before then.”

*

Tang Qi was indeed figuring it out.

After being rescued, he was escorted by his companions onto a train heading to the lower districts.

Since the train incident years ago, the checkpoints between the upper and lower districts had become increasingly strict for those traveling upward, but going downward was easy.

If Chu Zu had been slower to react, they wouldn’t have encountered any checkpoints along the way, making their escape smooth.

His companions were either on guard for possible inspections or looking at his wounds with concern.

In truth, the injuries weren’t severe. Chu Zu’s methods… were precise.

No fatal wounds, but each strike hit a nerve. It was a standard interrogation technique.

“What did that Chu guy ask you?” a companion asked with concern.

Outside the train, the neon lights gradually faded into the horizon. They were descending, heading toward a place so chaotic it didn’t even deserve a night sky.

Tang Qi watched as the prosperity grew farther away, until only the cheap, dim lights remained in his vision.

The light in his eyes still burned, flickering with confusion.

“He asked me…” Tang Qi’s voice was hoarse, “If it hurts.”

The companion was stunned, then cursed under his breath. “That Chu guy’s a mad dog. He didn’t even flinch when his hand was pierced earlier… Is his whole body modified or something?”

No.

After studying human modification extensively over the past few years, Tang Qi knew for a fact that Chu Zu was 100% “original human.”

He didn’t ask about the codes his boss wanted, but kept repeating, “Does it hurt?”

Recalling the moment of rescue, Chu Zu had indeed shown no reaction. His gaze had only lingered on his wounded hand for a moment before he walked over to the projection.

Tang Qi was certain Chu Zu would figure it out immediately. Based on how these people operated, they should’ve already encountered roadblocks by now.

But everything was going suspiciously smoothly.

Why?