"Finally found the time to finish the English translation of Stray Birds." Chu Zhi felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He was the type who couldn't relax until unfinished business was settled.
"If I remember right, Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913 for Gitanjali," Chu Zhi mused. If he ever drew Gitanjali from the system's lottery, he'd have to be extra careful when "borrowing" it.
After some research, he chose Macmillan Publishers—one of the "Big Six" global publishers, specializing in English textbooks, literature, and academic works.
He sent the manuscript to [email protected], including his contact details. British companies were notoriously bureaucratic—if you didn't leave your info, they wouldn't bother replying to the sender's email.
That night, he treated himself to a feast, completing the [10-Day Ultra-Carb Diet] mission and earning 5 Personality Coins, bringing his balance to 7.
Two more variety show appearances, and he'd also finish [10 Public Appearances Without Makeup]. Chu Zhi felt his "talents" were getting out of hand—if left unchecked, they might become a problem.
Then, like a sly fox, he spotted a loophole in the system:
—He could check the prize pool before deciding whether to draw.
—If the pool was bad, he could wait a few days for it to refresh.
—Repeat until the pool was stacked with SSR rewards.
Chu Zhi smirked. "Heh. Infinite rerolls."
A glance at the clock—his ride would arrive in 10 minutes. Enough time to scroll on Weibo… on his burner account, of course. The cautious "Acting Emperor" never surfed the web on his main. The internet is a dangerous place.
A trending hashtag caught his eye:
#LeeJoonSukSaysDontInterfere
Know thy enemy. Even if he had zero interest in K-pop, Chu Zhi clicked.
It was Guangming Daily's interview with GZ about the 17-year-old girl who threatened suicide after her parents refused to buy her a "Love U" concert ticket. The firefighters had rescued her just in time.
"Why does this dog sound like he's speaking human words?" Chu Zhi frowned.
But the real shock came when he saw the fans' reactions:
[@DreamChaser88] "Joon-suk oppa is right! Parents and kids should work things out themselves. That firefighter RUINED her chance to chase her dreams. State employees should respect dreams more."
(32K likes)
Chu Zhi rubbed his eyes. "Is this… carbon-based lifeform logic?"
The algorithm, sensing his outrage, fed him more of the same:
[@GZ4EVA] "Poor girl. She could've met her oppas if not for that 'hero'. She must've been desperate. No one jumps for fun."
[@StanTalent] "Our country only cares about grades, not dreams. Joon-suk oppa gets it!"
[@TruthSayer] "Am I the only one who thinks the firefighter overstepped?"
[@KDHunter] "Was he trying to hit a rescue quota? So annoying."
Chu Zhi stared at his screen. Behind the 30-fps pixels, behind the word "dreams," the comments screamed two things: "Brain-dead."
"Do people actually believe this crap?" He scrolled further. They did.
Lee Joon-suk's argument was pure gaslighting—twisting a suicide threat into a "family discussion." He'd never dare say this in Korea. This wasn't ignorance. It was malice. By downplaying the act, he was encouraging fans to blackmail their parents.
Then, a voice of reason:
[@WestRiceMan] "WTF? Grandpa Yuan Longping fed y'all too well? Firefighters save lives, and you're mad? Even a rescued dog wags its tail. You're worse than dogs. Praying the firefighter never sees this trash."
A screenshot under the post made Chu Zhi's temples throb—extremists were organizing:
"Which fire station was it? Let's report him for overreach."
"Found it—Lulin Fire Bureau."
"Couldn't he wait until she 'negotiated' with her parents?"
"Call 12388 to report misconduct!"
"These are our 'flowers of the nation'? More like wilted weeds."
His phone rang—assistant Xiao Zhu. The car had arrived. Chu Zhi took two deep breaths, suppressing his rage. Don't take it out on others.
"Xiao Zhu, tell Qiu-ge I'll be down in a minute. Something came up," he said calmly before hanging up.
Back on Weibo, the anti-firefighter campaign was gaining traction. The Lulin Bureau had to issue a statement: "Our officer acted fully within protocol."
Chu Zhi recalled a bizarre incident from his past life—a rapper's fans reported Ziguangge (a state-affiliated media outlet) as a "restaurant serving gutter oil," trending #ZiguanggeGutterOil. At the time, he'd dismissed it as tabloid nonsense.
Now, seeing real fans weaponize complaints against a firefighter, he grasped the toxic power of celebrity influence. For the first time, he felt the weight of being a public figure.
As the car rolled on, Chu Zhi remembered a passage from Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty:
In 1864 Colorado, U.S. soldiers attacked a Native American village. With the men away, only elders, women, and children remained. The soldiers showed no mercy—even using a fleeing 3-year-old as target practice, taking turns shooting until the child fell.
Afterward, none felt remorse. They saw it as "patriotic expulsion" and "proof of masculinity."
When "evil" is rebranded as something noble—especially under "authority"—monstrosities follow.
In this case, the "authority" was Lee Joon-suk.
To his fans, harassing firefighters wasn't wrong. They were "defending dreams"—the more extreme, the more "righteous."
"System, use a Song Voucher. Exchange for Lone Warrior," Chu Zhi ordered. His balance dropped from 7 to 4.
[Exchange successful.]
His original self's father had died as a firefighter; his mother, a frontline cop, was killed by gang retaliation. He wouldn't let heroes be slandered.
If I'm a singer, I'll fight like one.
"Sister Niu, any invites from Korean variety shows? Or can we secure a spot?" he asked his manager.