A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 5 “Less riddler vibes, good for you, me, and the readers!”

I, Chu Zu, didn’t hide my movements from anyone, taking official channels where my itinerary could be checked online.

Except for Luciano himself, almost everyone thought I represented the Espositos.

After I boarded the train, the conductor closely monitored my actions.

Seeing a woman, clearly dressed in lower-district attire, sit across from me, his heart nearly stopped.

Who didn’t know I’d silenced thirty-six lower-district zones?

If this killing god made a move on the train…

He’d have to wipe his tears, clean the carriage, and pray it didn’t cause a commotion like the train accident years ago.

“I’m Dai Xi’an,” the woman introduced herself promptly.

She looked twenty or thirty, legs crossed, displaying impeccable manners toward me, “I know you, Mr. Chu Zu.”

I kept looking out the window.

The train was halfway through its route.

The upper district’s artificial rain stopped midway.

Though the mid and lower districts were collectively called the lower district, the differences were stark.

After the train accident, some mid-district buildings used new materials, nearly glass-like and translucent, mimicking concrete and steel to patch holes.

Mid-district folk paid a steep price, striking a deal with upper-district managers.

For a few days and hours each month, the materials briefly reverted to their translucent state.

Mid-district people gathered, basking in this filtered, second-hand sunlight.

To bottom-district folk, this was unimaginable. Most had no concept of sunlight, their imagination of upper-district life limited to full stomachs and warmth.

In “Chu Zu’s” memories, suppressing thirty-six districts was mostly easy for the thirty bottom ones.

The mid-district was the challenge.

No surprise—Tang Qi had spent too long in the upper district.

Even as a rebel, his slogans were things like “Take back our sunlight.”

But what was sunlight?

In the bottom district, only the lucky few who survived the train accident’s flames knew.

And how many could that be?

I gazed at the mid-district crowd until the train carried my view into a bleaker jungle of scrap iron.

Dai Xi’an didn’t mind my silence or feel awkward, continuing the one-sided conversation.

“Pardon my boldness. Are you here to find someone or kill someone?”

After a pause, I replied: “No difference.”

Dai Xi’an’s lips curved into a smile, like an innocent child finding a crack in a stubborn stone.

Given her age and status, her seamless ease felt eerie.

The system finally sped through its data.

“Dai Xi’an, an intelligence broker operating between districts, claims she works only for resources. She’s true to her word, selling info to both sides—Luciano, then Tang Qi.”

“When Luciano needed her, she was a brief darling of the upper district. After he crushed three major families, leaving only the Tangs, she became a discard.”

Reading the data, I understood.

Dai Xi’an’s motive for approaching me was simple.

She knew her value to the upper district was spent, but while Luciano hadn’t acted, she had to play both sides.

“Dai Xi’an ends up Tang Qi’s ally,” the system summarized.

In an ultra-information age, an intelligence broker’s life-risking loyalty was a devastating weapon.

No wonder Luciano lost—he brought it on himself.

“I heard Esposito was furious because you let the Tang heir go. You vanished for three days, and we all thought you’d died at his hands.”

“Let go?”

“That’s what the intelligence says, likely spread by those people.”

Dai Xi’an pointed to the train’s lower level, “So I think you’re here to find someone. Killing’s not worth the trip.”

“Host, something’s off,” the system warned me. “The original text never had such ambiguous dialogue. Everyone’s… pure, straightforward.”

“Where’s the ambiguity? She’s hinting that lower-district rumors claim I let Tang Qi go, which reached Luciano, so I’m likely abandoned. She wants to pull me to Tang Qi’s side, and Tang Qi’s open to it. Simple…”

I paused, realizing, “No, in a core novel, don’t overcomplicate side characters. I nearly forgot.”

The system was relieved: “No problem! You remembered!”

It said, “Though you and Dai Xi’an are Side, the novel’s focus isn’t on you. But now, eyes on this train are watching you! There’s a risk it’ll reach the protagonist or key side characters!”

I fell silent again.

Dai Xi’an wasn’t sure if she’d hit a nerve.

To her, I was Luciano’s executioner.

My silence was a predator’s poise, a beast’s gaze before baring fangs, waiting for a command to rip out a throat.

In an intelligence broker’s eyes, I wasn’t hard to read.

The truly unpredictable one was the mercurial Luciano.

That player loved stabbing mid-laugh, using old-school killing methods.

With countless bloodless ways, he insisted on controlling the table’s rhythm.

But now, Dai Xi’an couldn’t read me either.

She knew what happened these three days.

Tang Qi shouldn’t have left my hands alive.

Luciano shouldn’t have kindly sent me to doctors.

The men Luciano sent to fetch me were still standing dumbly on the street, while I defied his orders, heading to the lower district.

Only those involved knew the specifics, but Dai Xi’an cared about the implications.

As an executioner, a tamed beast, a blade, should I have my own thoughts?

No.

But if I was no longer an executioner, beast, or blade?

Free from Luciano, from Tang Qi, from taking sides—what was I?

Could I be used?

At this thought, Dai Xi’an doubted her judgment.

Had she miscalculated from the start?

Was this just another of Luciano’s traps?

She didn’t know how long she’d been thinking, if her demeanor was proper, or if she’d slipped up.

The train’s arrival announcement snapped her out of it, and she realized, with slight despair, she’d botched a rare chance.

I stood from my seat.

When I reached for my pocket, Dai Xi’an’s frozen thoughts reacted, fearing she might die here.

But I only pulled out a dark brown leather wallet.

Few carried wallets anymore.

Real leather was a luxury in the lower district, shunned in the upper.

Wallets held physical items, but the upper district had fully digitized all currency.

I took out all the money—mostly upper-district issues for nostalgic events, collectibles worth more than their face value.

Dai Xi’an also saw what I separated… scrap paper.

Lower-district currency was just that—scrap.

I put the scrap back, handing her the rest.

“I rarely trade with people. The last time was at twelve, with Luci.”

When I said this quietly, Dai Xi’an’s thoughts stopped.

Her heart pounded, the absurdity overwhelming, as she tried to recall my usual demeanor.

Beyond my killer’s menace, the sparse details deepened the absurdity.

The trade I acknowledged shaped my entire life. If this moment equated to that.

Dai Xi’an was terrified by her own thoughts, frozen in her seat.

“Not enough, I owe you one,” I said in my coldest tone, making her heaviest promise.Is that enough?”

“E-Enough…” Dai Xi’an heard her voice, hoarse from fear.

I didn’t care about her reaction, nodding lightly and heading to the train door.

She suddenly stood, clutching the money and promise, shouting: “Sir! Tang Qi bought all your info from me!”

I turned back: “I can’t owe you twice.”

Dai Xi’an trembled: “This is… a gift, my gift to you.”

I stared at her, my red eyes nearly thick with blood.

In the end, I said nothing and left.

Only when my figure vanished did Dai Xi’an slump into her seat.

She was still trembling for no reason, realizing after a while what her instinctive act meant.

For years, her body, dancing on a knife’s edge as an intelligence broker, answered her earlier question.

Free from Luciano, from Tang Qi, from taking sides—what was I?

I’d bloodied the Espositos in one night, protected Luciano’s fledgling years, suppressed thirty-six lower districts in record time.

Unmodified, purely human, yet why did everyone only recall Luciano’s brutality when mentioning me?

I’d already proven, in neon and rust, my absolute strength to claim a seat at the table in either district.

All I lacked was legitimacy.

Where to find it?

Dai Xi’an clutched the money, shivering.

“Dealing with intelligence brokers is refreshing. A few extra glances, some valuables, and she won’t say a word more than needed.”

I reached Lower District Eight, stepping out of the station, sharing my delight with the system.

“She even gifted me intel—what a driven lady.”

The system was thrilled: “Yes! Less riddler vibes, good for you, me, and the readers!”

I’d figured out my system’s logic and didn’t dwell, heading toward the location it provided.

The novel described the lower district thus.

[A dangerous, chaotic paradise. Deformed buildings, unfit to be called houses, crammed together like trash God tossed, waiting to dissolve into earth’s nutrients.

No sunrise or sunset was allowed, stars a fantasy.

Flickering dim lights cast broken shadows.

After long gazes, miraculously, faint, trembling glimmers emerged.

Upper-district overseers burning bodies on schedule.

Residents here loved gathering by the firelight.

Flames drove off the stench and cold.

Only here could they see something in each other’s eyes called “life.”

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the lower district.

Reality matched the novel’s depiction closely.

The farther from the station, the darker it got.

Few buildings served as homes, easy to spot—those with tattered sheets as curtains were “houses” here.

Out of place were markers every few hundred meters, like traffic signs, dividing Lower District Eight into subzones for overseers to manage residents like livestock.

The designer clearly didn’t know the lower district—the markers were reflective.

Where was the light here?

Ridiculous.

I saw people along the way, but even glimpsing my shadow, they fled like ghosts.

“Is it my reputation, or are Lower District Eight folks just shy?”

I’d thought, with Tang Qi leading, the lower district might be fiercer.

The novel described it so.

[People once obsessed with survival began to feel primal urges. They wanted to laugh, cry, destroy this damned world, to plunder, not be plundered, to make the sky hear their roars.]

The system analyzed: “‘Chu Zu’ just caused a big stir here. Avoiding you is normal.”

“The novel focuses on Tang Qi’s circle. Most here are more Side than you—no one cares about their lives. The author doesn’t write them, readers don’t know.”

“Status-wise, they’re like the girl you gave the umbrella to.”

“…”

I stopped abruptly, lowering my gaze, saying softly: “How are they the same?”

The system didn’t grasp my sudden mood shift and didn’t answer.

Before trouble arose, it urgently warned: “Tang Qi’s here!”

As it spoke, a shadow darted before me.

Tang Qi, who should’ve vanished underground, appeared.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, staring into my cold eyes.