WUM CH1

“On this special day, we welcome the 52nd Golden Dragon Awards. This grand ceremony is held at the Longwan City Film and Television Memorial Hall, and under the anticipation of the crowd, the curtain has finally been raised…”

The award ceremony was incredibly grand, the lights dazzling as stars of all stripes attended in their finest attire. High-intensity spotlights scattered down from the ceiling, combined by the lighting engineers to create a scene of sheer luxury.

Artists sat quietly amidst the interplay of dark night and brilliant light, row after row stretching back. Seated in the very first row were highly respected, veteran artists, while further back sat the various fresh-faced, new-generation idols.

They had no idea what would happen at this ceremony that could determine their career status.

…Would they walk away empty-handed, or reach the summit to enjoy supreme glory?

“The competition for Best Actor this time is fiercely intense. The nominated works are evenly matched. Picking out the Best Actor—the Film Emperor of this festival—is difficult. I really can’t guess who it will be.” The female host, clad in an elegant gown, smiled brightly and composedly. She tilted her head toward the man co-hosting the award presentation with her and asked casually, “What do you think, Film Emperor Gu?”

The man sported a clean, sharp haircut, and his black suit was equally simple—so simple that it almost didn’t suit his striking good looks.

Mostly, it was because he didn’t want to steal the spotlight.

Even if he wore the most generic, mass-market style and completely ignored the banter thrown his way by the female host—opting to merely read off the script word for word without a single highlight—who was he?

He was Gu Yanzhou.

Back in the day, Gu Yanzhou won the Golden Dragon Award for Best Actor for three consecutive years. The judging panel was forced to change the rules just for him, awarding him a Lifetime Achievement Award and permanently removing him from the pool of future candidates.

Translated, that meant: We crown you the lifetime Film Emperor, so you don’t need to compete anymore. Leave a way out for the others… otherwise, this award is practically meaningless. Who would still care about it, and where would the suspense be?

…It sounded particularly punch-worthy.

But no one dared deny that he was the eternal Film Emperor, the unparalleled myth of the entertainment circle.

The ceremony continued.

Female host: “Film Emperor Gu, aren’t you even a little curious to see exactly which rising star will inherit your mantle?”

Gu Yanzhou took the microphone. His sharply contoured face stood out exceptionally under the spotlight. He smiled faintly, ruthlessly cutting off the extra drama the female host had tried to force onto him, and simply said, “I believe everyone is very curious too. Please look at the big screen.”

Only then was the cameraman willing to shift the lens away from Film Emperor Gu, aiming it at the large screen. A montage from Anti-Narcotics popped up, its opening grand and breathtaking.

Anti-Narcotics was a classic piece that had won both box office success and critical acclaim this year. It told the story of an anti-narcotics police officer. Without too many flashy fight scenes, it heavily focused on depicting the daily lives of these officers, showing how they endured silently just to minimize the harm brought to their families. This glory and hardship were portrayed vividly through the protagonist’s performance.

“I believe that as soon as Anti-Narcotics appeared, everyone already guessed who this person is.” The female host pushed the atmosphere to its absolute peak. “The winner of the 52nd Golden Dragon Award for Best Actor… Everyone, call out his name with me!”

In an instant, the venue boiled with voices.

“—Shao Si!”

“Shao Si!”

…

Smack.

Li Guangzong helplessly stared at the laptop resting on his knees… which was no longer making a single sound.

Just a moment ago, an arm had stretched over lazily from behind, ruthlessly slamming his laptop shut.

He was in sheer disbelief as he turned his head around. “Shao Si, what are you doing?!”

“What am I doing? I should be asking what you are doing.”

Shao Si had originally been huddled in the back seat of the nanny van, sleeping with a jacket draped over himself. Over the past week, he had averaged only three and a half hours of sleep a night. He had finally managed to drift into a dream, only for his ears to be bombarded by his manager’s constant chirping, screaming, and exclaiming, intermittently accompanied by a manic, creepy giggle.

Even a person with the best temper wouldn’t be able to endure it, and Shao Si’s temper couldn’t be considered good in the first place.

“This happened almost half a year ago, and you’re still fucking watching it. What’s the point of watching?” Shao Si had just pushed aside the jacket covering his face, waking up sluggishly. Perhaps because he had a slight cold, his voice was a bit hoarse. “Watching it is one thing, but could you please not giggle ‘hehe’ like a pervert?”

Li Guangzong: “Alright, I’ll pay a bit more attention to that… but what do you mean by pervert? What are you implying?”

Shao Si: “I know I was a little too handsome on the day of the awards ceremony. It’s completely normal for you to be unable to forget it. Be good now, aren’t I in front of you every single day? You can stare at me however you like, so let’s stop clinging to that broken recording like an idiot.”

If they weren’t inside the car right now, Li Guangzong swore he would risk his job to get into a fistfight with Shao Si.

Even if this master was the most popular star he had managed in years, even if he couldn’t afford to offend him… he would still fight him!

How could someone so utterly shameless exist in this world?!

“Who was looking at you? I was looking at Film Emperor Gu!” Li Guangzong practically jumped up. “That’s my Male God Gu! The myth of the entertainment industry! Who’s unable to forget you?!”

Shao Si was very familiar with the title “Film Emperor Gu,” and he knew this was a resounding figure in the entertainment industry. However, he had always been face-blind. Peers he hadn’t worked with were roughly equivalent to a blur of pixels in his eyes.

So he rubbed his temples, squinting as he asked, “You mean that Gu… Gu…”

Gu what again?

“Gu Yanzhou.”

Li Guangzong had already calmed down. Having served this master for so many years, he had long cultivated the divine skill of not being easily angered to death.

Shao Si fished a bottle of water out from under the seat, swiftly twisted off the cap, and tilted his head back for a few gulps. As he screwed the cap back on, he watched his manager deadpan: “The one who presented the award to you at the ceremony.”

Shao Si racked his brains trying to remember, but ultimately gave up. “Even if you say that, I still…”

Li Guangzong took two deep breaths and reopened the laptop, preparing to show him his male god’s face.

He really fucking needed to get this guy to recognize him. Otherwise, if they ever ran into him at work and Shao Si pulled a big-shot ‘who the hell are you?’ attitude, it would inevitably leak out and cause a bad influence. It might just add to his pile of black material, like disrespecting seniors or being arrogant.

He was just about to say, ‘Look closely, memorize his appearance. Yes, this is the face, memorize it well,’ but before he could get the words out, he saw Shao Si tap twice on the trackpad. Then, Film Emperor Gu’s face flashed across the laptop screen, leaving only a lingering afterimage. The progress bar jumped straight to the segment where Shao Si was holding the trophy and giving his acceptance speech—and it was an extreme close-up at that.

Shao Si looked at himself on the screen with satisfaction. “Handsome.”

Li Guangzong: “…”

Staring at Shao Si, Li Guangzong thought to himself, Let there be black material. It’d be completely abnormal if no one dragged this idiot. I’m done caring.

Shao Si reveled in his own narcissism for a while, then shrank back into the rear seat to catch up on his sleep. Just as he closed his eyes, he realized that this nap was destined to be ruined.

[Hey, partner.]

[How have you been living lately?]

The icy, mechanical voice in his head refused to dissipate. Shao Si didn’t open his eyes, merely furrowing his brows slightly. He knew others couldn’t hear this voice; only he could converse with it. It was rather fantastical when you thought about it. Something like a ‘System’ seemed to only exist in dreams—how could one actually encounter it in reality?

[…Piss off. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to drop dead. Don’t annoy me.]

After Shao Si replied, the System giggled dismissively. [You won’t die. You still have two years of lifespan left.]

[Are you really bored today?] Hearing his lifespan mentioned, Shao Si finally opened his eyes. [Does it feel that great to remind a dying person every day that they’re about to die?]

[Young people shouldn’t be so hot-headed. Cool off. I’m just reminding you not to forget to do your tasks,] the System coaxed. [That Yang Yinyin—how’s your surveillance on her going lately?]

[I’m incredibly busy. I hired a private investigator to watch her, and they say she hasn’t left the house recently.]

[Don’t you find that strange? A Golden Dragon Award-winning Film Empress at the absolute peak of her career, turning down all her gigs to stay at home for a full month.] The System’s voice grew increasingly eerie, even adding its own ghost story sound effects and built-in background music. [Why?]

[…] Shao Si had no time to ponder ‘why’. [I want to sleep. I’m serious.]

His karmic entanglement with this System probably traced back to elementary school.

He’d had a bad heart since he was little. In the doctor’s words: how long he lived was entirely up to the will of heaven. Back then, he was frail and small, constantly bullied by classmates. Even though the doctor advised that it was best to rest at home quietly with his condition, Shao Si refused. He didn’t want to stay all alone in a massive house with only nannies and private tutors coming in and out every day. He wanted to go to school, make friends, and play with kids his own age.

This willfulness quickly dragged him into an accident.

Shao Si had a sudden attack one day, but the medicine in his desk drawer was nowhere to be found. It was likely some classmate playing a prank on him again, hiding the medicine to watch him scramble around desperately looking for it.

What did children know about heart disease?

They thought everything was a joke, including that bottle of stark white pills.

Shao Si quickly felt himself suffocating, like a fish out of water unable to breathe, struggling weakly on the shore. Panting heavily was useless; his entire respiratory tract seemed completely shut off…

Just then, as he pitched headfirst onto the floor of the hallway, a voice from the unknown spoke to him: “Friend, do you desire life?”

…

Later on, he had read all sorts of popular web novels about systems, but the relationship between him and his System wasn’t quite like the ones written in novels. The two of them didn’t have a System-Host relationship. If anything, they were more like partners, which was why the System sometimes teasingly called him ‘partner’.

As for why they had this relationship.

…It was because this System was a broken system.

Literally.

It was a half-crippled system that had been forcibly scrapped after malfunctioning.

[My job is to control the life and death of humans according to the data issued from above, in order to maintain ecological balance.]

That was all Shao Si knew about the System’s origins. He had asked it why it was forcibly scrapped, but the System merely gave a brief answer saying it had violated the rules. Shao Si secretly speculated whether this broken system had engaged in some forbidden romance with someone.

In short, if the two of them wanted to survive, they had to be bound together. The System, though half-paralyzed, still had the ability to absorb energy and convert it into lifespan. And Shao Si had to provide it with this energy.

…After all, he was stuck with a half-crippled system.

Just as Shao Si was groggily slipping into a deep slumber, the phone in his pocket vibrated twice.

It was a text message.

It read concisely: Yang Yinyin left the house.

Shao Si squinted, his vision a blur, relying purely on feeling to type out: Where did she go?

He even began holding his breath in anticipation, until the other party sent back a similarly brief reply:

—The market for groceries.

…

—Bought carrots, two yuan a pound.

—And cauliflower, this was a bit pricey. Who knew cauliflower was so expensive? I think it’s imported.

—Ooh, mantis shrimp!

—Wonder how good the Film Empress’s cooking is.

Shao Si expressionlessly turned off his phone, beginning to consider whether he should switch to a different private investigator. This one didn’t look very reliable at all.