Passing out wasn’t on Chu Zu’s agenda.

After a quick scan of his new body, he came to a confident conclusion: I’m basically Superman.

And Superman doesn’t faint.

Not even after two weeks of sleeping, only fifteen minutes total. Not even with a hole blown clean through his palm.

After leaving the holding cell, he took a moment to swing by the med bay and patch up the wound. Then, as per Chu Zu’s habits, he took a combat shower before facing Luciano.

Physically, all systems go. No problems.

The issue lay in Chu Zu’s fragile mind.

Before meeting Luciano, he had to finish patching the backstory—otherwise, the entire plotline would barrel straight toward the canon ending.

The first hurdle was how “Chu Zu” and Luciano met.

The original novel gave him nothing. Just a single line:

“Ever since Luciano picked up Chu Zu from the Lower District…”

That won’t do.

If he couldn’t directly change how the characters perceived him, then he’d do it indirectly—through worldbuilding.

After all, as the creator saw it, “Chu Zu” was born flawed. His goals kept shifting. No clear drive. Every action looked like pure, unfiltered madness.

What could anchor him?
The past.

But how to patch the heavens without disturbing the Dao?

Chu Zu was good at that.

Ever since absorbing the original novel’s info dump, his mind had been spinning. Now, at last, he had a plan.

He opened the system’s lore archive for Neon Crown.

Took a breath.

And started writing.

Before he could type, the system issued a warning:

“Once you write the premise for supplemental scenes, all events that didn’t originally happen to you will now become your lived experience.”

“You cannot alter the actions or speech of other characters—only peripheral figures. It’s up to you to enact the added storyline.”

“To others, it will just be a memory, a line in your backstory. But to you, it will be real. You’ll live it.”

“Do you wish to proceed?”

Chu Zu answered with full confidence—and granted himself one key trait: congenital analgesia. No pain.

The system was unimpressed but didn’t trigger any alarms.

Of course, his changes couldn’t be too absurd. If he wrote, “Chu Zu punches out the entire world,” the system would let him taste what it meant to go head-to-head with the entire world.

But as soon as he wrote the pain immunity into the file, the dull ache in his palm vanished.

He flexed his fingers, satisfied. Then resumed his elegant scrawl through the setting file.

When he finished writing the pretext for his encounter with Luciano, the system echoed the earlier alert:

“Target novel Neon Crown has been updated.”

“New plotline will now be uploaded in immersive experience format. Host, please prepare yourself.”

“Loading supplemental storyline…”

This time, Chu Zu was ready.

He cleared his mind, braced for the upload.

But “immersive experience” was not at all like the system’s initial data dump.

He lost control of his body.

And by the time he regained it… He’d become a small, skinny thing, crashing straight into a man. A blink later, he was pinned to the ground and getting his ass beat.

Chu Zu: “…”

System: “This was the scene you wrote.”

Chu Zu: “I know. It’s fine. Great collision. Didn’t feel a thing. I’m a genius—where my acting falls short, analgesia picks up.”

System: “…”

Even though the next few scenes hadn’t been explicitly written into the lore, the chain of events played out exactly as he’d envisioned.

“Chu Zu” was now officially connected to Luciano.

And compared to a written paragraph, living it made all the difference.

Chu Zu could smell the expensive scent clinging to Luciano.

He couldn’t quite describe the feeling—it was winter, the sun was just right, and the embrace was tight. A sleeveless boy pressed against warmth, giving the fragrance a whole new meaning.

“He smells like the future.”

Chu Zu, almost delighted, whispered to the system:

“Now I’ve got an even better grasp on the character. When ‘Chu Zu’ eventually betrays him, it’ll make perfect sense. Once Luciano dies, there’ll be a solid motive for ‘revenge.’”

Six dots blinked in the corner of his mind. The system finally replied, its voice edged with professionalism:

“I… assumed this would count as a cherished memory. But you’re already imagining Luciano’s death…”

“Sweet memories don’t contradict betrayal,” Chu Zu replied. “Writers are all like this. The warmer the beginning, the richer the details, the smoother the eventual betrayal. If there’s no setup at all, it’s not betrayal—it’s just psychosis.”

The system paused.

Then agreed.

And logged his words into its learning database.

“It seems you’re crafting a cold-faced, emotionally tormented character pulled along by inner tension,” the system mused.

But Chu Zu stopped, puzzled.

“…No? Who writes deep emotional arcs in a story like Neon Crown? Isn’t this a classic leveling-up progression novel? Or did I misread the genre?”

Six more dots blinked in the void of his mind.

Before they could argue further, the supplemental scenes ended.

Chu Zu returned to the shower room.

His mind promptly short-circuited.

“As no actual time passed in the real timeline, all your supplemental experiences took less than a second. You may require a brief adjustment period.”

But Chu Zu had no time to adjust.

He knew Luciano tracked everything—how long “Chu Zu” spent in each room, down to the second.

Usually, Luciano wouldn’t bother to dig into the logs. But with the new settings loaded, nothing could be left to chance.

So even as his brain threatened to combust, Chu Zu added one final line to the setting file.

When he finished, the system glitched—no response, not even the usual chime. Just a burst of static.

“Hide that last line,” Chu Zu muttered. “I don’t want to know it. Not even me. Make it a blank spot in memory.”

“Can you do that? Just… wipe it clean. ‘Chu Zu’ doesn’t need to remember.”

The system replied, dry as dust:

“I can. But with your current unstable neural condition, further memory edits may cause collapse. You could pass out.”

Then I’ll pass out.

So Chu Zu did.

“Suggest transferring Chu Zu to the Lower District. He recently suppressed uprisings in all thirty-six zones—they’ll ensure he’s dealt with.”

“This can also serve as a justification for purging Lower District agitators and locating Tang Qi’s hideout.”

“If you’re worried about him waking up mid-process, I can administer a sedative and muscle relaxant.”

Luciano glanced down at the man lying on the floor.

Voice low. Dangerous.

“Jeeves, shut up. I mean it this time. Shut. Up.”

“Order acknowledged.”

Luciano didn’t throw Chu Zu into a med-pod.

He’d promised to give him the best of everything.

And for one of the few promises in his life, he intended to keep it.

In this era, most illnesses could be cured with tech. If not, the organs were replaced outright—half your brain could be digitized and still function.

Only true genetic defects were terminal.

Either you uploaded your consciousness the second the symptoms showed up, or you waited quietly for death.

The Esposito family had long known the Tang Clan was playing God with biotech. In secret, they’d raised an elite team of private physicians to handle cases too sensitive for the public eye.

These doctors cost enough each year to feed thousands in the Lower District.

And yet… not a single one could explain Chu Zu’s collapse.

Every scan came back clean. Physically, he was perfect. He’d managed his body meticulously, and his genetic makeup placed him well above the human curve.

One doctor nearly uttered “possible location-based gene defect” before swallowing it and sweating through a safer verdict: “Severe fatigue. Mind can’t keep up with the body.”

Luciano’s cruelty wasn’t news.

In both the Upper and Lower Districts, his name spelled bloodshed.

If the past massacre of his own family had faded with time, his recent conquest of two major families—excluding the Tangs—and suppression of the Lower District revolt were loud enough to etch his reputation in steel.

Luciano Esposito was a man who cared only for results.

So when the doctors failed to offer a solution—and one even dared to suggest putting Chu Zu in a pod “just in case”—he nearly lost it.

“Mr. Chu Zu needs rest. If you could allow him some time—”

“Some time?”
Luciano laughed like a man humoring a child’s tantrum.
“He screwed up, and now I’m supposed to wait while he takes a nap? That’s what you’re saying?”

The doctor wisely said nothing.

Luciano turned his gaze to the man lying quietly in bed.

He’d rarely seen Chu Zu like this—with his eyes closed for so long.

He was obedient. The perfect weapon.

Back when the family’s inheritance war reached its peak, Luciano still managed peaceful sleep.

Because someone else always woke at the first sign of danger.

Those red eyes—beautiful, nothing like mechanical targeting sensors—would snap open to scan the shadows for him.

On blood-slick nights, beneath ceaseless neon, Chu Zu’s living body was the only soft place left for dreams.

Luciano tore himself from the memory.

His chest felt strange.

He fought it back.

“I don’t keep useless people,” he said, voice clipped. “You, him—none of you are special. That clear?”

“…Yes, sir.”

Luciano didn’t spare another glance.

He had cleanup to do. Three other families to stabilize. And until Tang Qi was in chains and the cipher in his hands, his seat remained hot.

All or nothing.

So simple, this binary choice.

Lately, Upper District weather control had malfunctioned. Artificial rain, mixed with purification agents, fell on empty streets.

Only neon remained, buzzing madly through the storm.

Luciano descended the steps toward his hovercar.

The driver had parked five meters away, close as he dared.

No one held an umbrella.

Raindrops splashed on his hair, shoulders. The chemicals weren’t harmful.

But to him, it felt like acid.

He ducked into the car, fleeing everything tied to Chu Zu.