This was a dog-blood tragedy filled with abuse.
The story kicked off with the most clichéd true-and-fake young master swap imaginable, all thanks to a nurse’s careless mistake. Neither set of parents had any idea at first.
The fake young master had been born with Tetralogy of Fallot. He’d undergone two surgeries in his childhood, and his Zhou family parents doted on him endlessly, cherishing him like a priceless treasure—afraid he’d melt if they held him in their mouths, shatter if they cradled him in their hands.
He even had an older brother, the other protagonist of the tale. Influenced by their parents, the Big Brother of the Zhou Family took care of his little brother with even greater devotion, sparing no effort at all.
Day after day, that brotherly affection gradually twisted into something taboo. Before the truth came out, the author wove that illicit tension with masterful subtlety.
Just as the Zhou Family Big Brother resolved to bury his feelings and silently protect his brother for life, an accident revealed the existence of the real young master. A paternity test confirmed what had happened all those years ago.
Naturally, the Zhou family didn’t want their biological son wandering the world alone, but they respected his choice. When the real young master learned how wealthy his birth parents were, he didn’t hesitate—he picked the Zhou family.
But the fake young master suffered from a heart condition and couldn’t handle any shock, or it might prove fatal.
The Zhou family used that to their advantage, striking a deal: they’d keep it all from the fake young master, pretending the real one was his long-lost twin brother, kidnapped as a child and sold to the Lin family. Now he’d been found and brought home. The Lin family, as his adoptive parents, could visit whenever they liked—to see him and check on the fake young master, easing their longing.
The Lin family didn’t want to burden the fake young master’s fragile health, so they had no choice but to agree.
Up to this point, it should have been a happy ending for everyone. But the real young master wasn’t satisfied. After joining the Zhou family, he got no attention at all and had to tiptoe around the fake one’s feelings everywhere he went. His resentment festered. After getting scolded multiple times for picking fights with the protagonists, he finally snapped and exposed the fake young master’s identity.
Devastated, the fake young master suffered a heart attack from the shock. He never made it off the operating table. Adding insult to injury, the very next day, a donor heart matched him perfectly. Without the real young master’s meddling, he could have beaten his illness and started a new life.
It took the Zhou Family Big Brother a long time to come to terms with it. He vowed to live on in his brother’s place, doing good deeds to accumulate blessings for him, wishing him happiness in the next life.
In the end, though, the big brother succumbed to grief and followed his beloved into death at the age of twenty-nine.
As for that real young master? After the protagonist died, Father Zhou gave him a brutal beating and kicked him out of the house for good. The book never mentioned him again.
No matter how you sliced it, this was a hackneyed tragedy brimming with regrets. Zhou Zhuoyuan couldn’t find a single redeeming quality in it. Both protagonists were kind and naive to the point of stupidity. If it was meant to promote goodness, why did their endings have to be so heartbreaking?
And yet, the book exploded in popularity. The Small World absorbed energy from it, fueled by the readers’ intense emotions. It birthed a new Plane and even twisted time and space, yanking the Small World’s Zhou Zhuoyuan into this one—forcing him to deliver happiness to the protagonists.
That’s right. Zhou Zhuoyuan was that vicious real young master.
How laughable.
After dooming the villain to a lifetime of misery, the world handed him a “generous” second chance, naively expecting him to weep with gratitude and obey its will?
Like hell he would! Everyone adored Zhou Zhuoyi? Fine—he’d make sure they didn’t get their way. If he couldn’t be happy, no one else would either!
Zhou Zhuoyuan’s expression darkened, malice churning deeper within him.
He’d spill the truth right now. Whether Zhou Zhuoyi lived or died was none of his business! He couldn’t stand another minute in the Zhou family home. Better to rip off the mask early and spare himself the aggravation!
Zhou Zhuoyuan flung open the door, ready to storm downstairs and cause a scene. Instead, he collided head-on with Zhou Zhuoyi, who had been about to knock.
His breath caught, and he stumbled back a step in shock.
“Weird. Why’s big brother so scared of me today?” Zhou Zhuoyi tilted his head in confusion, a flicker of hurt in his clear eyes.
So fragile. Zhou Zhuoyuan hadn’t even done anything yet, and the guy’s oversensitive heart was already wounded.
Disgusting.
Zhou Zhuoyuan felt nausea rising. “I warn you, I’m not…”
Halfway through, his throat clenched like something was lodged there. He couldn’t force out another word.
A memory from his previous life flashed through his mind: Zhou Zhuoyi, writhing in agony on the verge of spasms, clinging to his last breath through tears as he gasped, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to steal your life…”
Back then, Zhou Zhuoyuan had no idea Zhou Zhuoyi would die. He’d just assumed it was more white-lotus fakery, pure hypocrisy. He never imagined those would be his brother’s final words.
Zhou Zhuoyi’s eyes had closed in reluctance—and they never opened again.
Actually, right after learning the truth about his background—before his illness had fully flared up—Zhou Zhuoyi had been consumed by utter rage. He had bellowed at Zhou Zhuoyuan, demanding to know why he had revealed all this. Was it his intention to get him killed?
But in the end, perhaps sensing that his days were numbered, his final words in this world had been an apology to Zhou Zhuoyuan.
Yet Zhou Zhuoyi hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Zhou Zhuoyuan who had been blinded by jealousy, who had imprisoned himself in his own torment, desperately chasing after things he could never attain. He had refused to let Zhou Zhuoyi go—and refused to let himself go, as well.
In the end, he averted his gaze from Zhou Zhuoyi’s puzzled stare. “I’m not skipping the exam. I’m just not feeling well today. Go ask the teacher for a sick day on my behalf.”
Zhou Zhuoyi left.
Zhou Zhuoyuan shut the door and collapsed into the soft embrace of his bedding.
There was no point in clashing with the protagonist. He’d finally gotten a second chance at life—why plunge back into that dead-end path?
No matter what, he now had a golden finger. Since everyone wanted him to end up in misery, he’d live better than any of them. He’d make sure no one got the satisfaction they craved.
【Beep—】
A sudden chime in his mind shattered his train of thought. Zhou Zhuoyuan’s eyelashes fluttered; the earlier headache still filled him with dread.
【System Connected】
【Detected extreme thoughts from Host 13 minutes ago: attempt to harm protagonist. Punishment administered.】
A system? A host? It sounded just like the ones from the web novels he’d read before. The only difference was that this one wasted no time, delivering its cold, mechanical verdict of punishment right away.
But on what grounds? Yes, he’d harbored thoughts of killing Zhou Zhuoyi—but he hadn’t acted on them. It wasn’t even an attempted crime. How could it pass judgment without first explaining the rules?
A sharp cramp twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t unbearable, though—nothing compared to that headache. Still, Zhou Zhuoyuan felt a heavy foreboding in his chest, as if he knew what was coming.
He was all too familiar with the sensation. But he shouldn’t be. An eighteen-year-old shouldn’t have stomach problems.
【Minor reprimand. Cease extreme thoughts, or face erasure.】
“What was the punishment?”
He’d already guessed, but he asked anyway—clinging, perhaps, to some faint, foolish hope.
The System offered no reply. It wasn’t here to hand out quests or field idle questions.
Zhou Zhuoyuan splayed his right hand. There it was: a faint scar slashing across his palm, a souvenir from two years back when a machine in the factory workshop had sliced him open. It had faded so much by now that no one would notice unless they leaned in close.
He let out a sudden laugh—at himself, mostly. How laughable. Even his body was the same battered wreck as before. Some rebirth this was.
His mind drifted back to the System’s talk of erasure. Did that mean forcing an end to his life? What a raw deal. If he didn’t play by the System’s rules, he’d have to die, huh?
【Not death. Complete erasure of your existence. No trace of you will remain in the world.】
The System responded this time, but its words sent chills racing down his spine. That flat, emotionless tone made Zhou Zhuoyuan’s skin crawl.
An eighteen-year-old Zhou Zhuoyuan would never have stood for such a threat. He’d have lashed out in a blaze of mutual destruction, dragging everyone down with him—just as he once had.
But he was twenty-three now. The twenty-three-year-old version of himself hadn’t always taken the best care of his health. Even so, those years had been ones of hard work and honest living. He’d discovered joys he’d never noticed before, escaping the daily poison of envy.
He didn’t want to die. He wanted to truly live. There were so many places left unseen, so many experiences untasted.
He’d turned into such a coward.
Truth be told, the System didn’t need to draw a distinction between erasure and plain death. Hardly anyone would remember him anyway, and Zhou Zhuoyuan didn’t care about leaving a mark on the world. His surrender boiled down to one thing: raw fear of dying.
No one came home for lunch. Aunt Shen delivered the meal to his room.
Zhou Zhuoyuan had always been imperious in the Zhou Family home, as if barking orders was the only way to assert his place as master. Most of the servants resented him for it, even if they kept it under wraps.
Aunt Shen was no exception. She braced herself to ignore whatever tantrum he threw. To her surprise, though, he said nothing—just sat there in silence, watching as she set the dishes on his desk.
Once the tray was arranged, she glanced over and saw him huddled alone in the corner of the bed. He met her eyes with a blank stare, as if puzzled why she was lingering.
She remembered that morning: Zhou Zhuoyi mentioning he felt unwell and needed to take the day off. He must be sick, she thought—that would explain the uncharacteristic quiet.
Aunt Shen didn’t like Zhou Zhuoyuan’s personality, but seeing him in this state, she couldn’t help feeling heartbroken. When the Little Young Master so much as sneezed, the entire household would swarm around him in a fuss, yet when he was sick enough to miss school, no one even bothered to check on him.
“If you’re feeling really unwell, should I call Doctor Xu to come take a look?”
Zhou Zhuoyuan’s body stiffened for an instant. Sensing the concern in her tone, he lowered his gaze and gently shook his head.
Although Aunt Shen was worried, she didn’t know what more she could say.
That evening, Zhou Fuxuan and Zhu Wan both returned home. In the tenth hour after his rebirth, Zhou Zhuoyuan finally laid eyes on his parents, whose faces had long faded into blurry vagueness in his memories.
During those ten hours, he hadn’t received a single phone call or text message. Zhou Zhuoyi had handled everything for him perfectly, and even his teacher hadn’t inquired about his absence from the exam.
It was as if he himself were utterly dispensable.
At the dinner table, Zhou Fuxuan seemed to only just notice his presence. He frowned and asked, “I heard from Little Yi that you weren’t feeling well today and skipped school?”
Zhou Zhuoyuan lifted his eyes slightly, an inevitable sense of suffocation tightening in his chest. He was a little afraid of Zhou Fuxuan.
He hadn’t been afraid before, but after Zhou Zhuoyi’s death, Zhou Fuxuan had beaten him mercilessly with a golf club, and from then on, the fear had taken root.
“I had a slight fever.” Keeping his head bowed, he uttered the excuse he had prepared earlier.
Zhu Wan hurriedly asked, “Why didn’t you tell us? Did you call a doctor to check you over?”
“No, I slept it off, and now I’m fine.” Zhou Zhuoyuan unconsciously poked at his rice. He wasn’t as calm as he’d imagined; his voice trembled as he spoke.
He had thought he’d moved past it all, but he hadn’t. The moment he heard Zhu Wan’s voice, he couldn’t suppress the memory of that day, when she had looked at his battered, flesh-tearing wounds with utter hatred and said, “I never should have brought you back into this family.”
And so he finally realized the truth: he had no parents of his own. He never had.
