Chapter 137 : Chapter 137

Chapter 137: “When he liked something, he truly liked it.”

Chu Zu suspected that Li Yamin was controlled by a specialist system after reading the reader forum.

The Li Yamin analyzed by Chu Zu and the Li Yamin analyzed by the readers were two completely opposite images.

Chu Zu believed that Li Yamin was far from being self-abasing.

His elder brother, Li Chuyang, while subtly suppressing him, also basically doted on him, giving him whatever he wanted.

If what he wanted was too abstract, then he would give him other “gifts” as compensation.

As long as Li Yamin showed no interest in the family business, he was the most comfortable person in the entire Li family, without exception.

Moreover, after his elder brother Li Chuyang realized he would not have blood relatives as offspring, he virtually raised Li Yamin as his own son, fearing only that he wouldn't be ambitious.

To be self-abasing in such an environment would truly make him a naturally self-abasing holy body.

—Li Yamin was not self-abasing at all.

Everything he got came easily; the only things he didn’t get were those he wasn’t interested in.

Readers saw a partial Li Yamin, a second-generation slacker who had never been acknowledged or affirmed.

Once the person who acknowledged and affirmed him began to withdraw, he immediately reacted, acting foolish, wanting to reclaim his original comfort zone.

If Chu Zu were also counted as one of the readers, the Li Yamin he read about and the Li Yamin read about by some other readers had clearly become two entirely different people.

After Chu Zu read the forum, Li Yamin’s image gradually began to align with the image analyzed by the readers.

This operation was comparable to “peeking at the answer key and then quietly changing the incorrect solution steps.”

The System quickly brought back the answer.

“He said he is Earth Big Mango, and he’s your loyal reader.”

“The setting for Wanshu Zu’s parents wasn’t written by him. After it was put in, he conducted a detailed investigation. Since you didn’t have parents, he included a trust fund for you when writing the settings.”

“He said he didn’t actually see anything wrong with his acting, but he bought a ‘Catch Me If You Can’. It seems to have really helped.”

“He also said…”

The Little yellow chicken stammered: “He feels that the brotherhood he wrote isn’t quite right, but he doesn’t know what the problem is.”

Chu Zu: “Long Aotians don’t lack brothers. I think Nilia is also a cowardly Long Aotian; look at him and Polika, aren’t they close companions?”

Earth Big Mango was also an “old acquaintance,” arguably even more familiar than Guanfu.

At the Newcomers Exchange Conference, Earth Big Mango appeared as a Red Fox, and was an ace specialist for “Long Aotian Correction.”

He was also the reader who had posted long reviews several times in the reader forum and brought up the issue of the forum’s timeline, known as “One Punch to Explode the Earth.”

Thinking of something, Chu Zu adjusted his subsequent remarks.

“But it’s normal for specialists to want to continuously improve. Teacher Earth upholds a humble attitude, striving for excellence. I, too, must persevere in learning and bravely scale new heights.”

The Little yellow chicken listened, dumbfounded, and said dazedly, “He’s called Earth Big Mango, not Earth.”

The term “Big Mango” hadn’t appeared in Chu Zu’s dictionary for a long time.

It wasn’t there before, it wasn’t there now, and it wouldn’t be there in the future.

“Didn’t I only add ten lines of settings? Teacher Earth made me deeply realize my laziness and lack of ambition. I will correct my behavior starting now.”

Chu Zu fabricated a large amount of official jargon to fill the logs, then said, “Bring out the setting collection; I’ll complete it.”

…

Wanshu Zu would not talk about his family externally.

There was nothing to talk about.

His parents were ordinary people.

Further back, there were no elders who needed support, and among his peers, there were no close relatives.

Wanshu Zu’s generation also had no children to play with.

Ordinary parents, an ordinary child, an ordinary upbringing, an ordinary accident happened, and he ordinarily became an orphan.

Wanshu Zu could understand and accept everything.

He didn't react much at his parents’ funeral; instead, Marcus Li next to him was sobbing uncontrollably.

Wanshu Zu mocked him for shedding more tears than little Nora.

Marcus Li denied being sentimental, retorting stubbornly: “I’m crying about your astronomical inheritance tax. This is shameless America; you’re going to get fleeced.”

Wanshu Zu: “My family has a trust fund, and your parents even suggested it.”

Marcus Li: “…”

Marcus Li cried even harder: “Uncle and Auntie were gentle, good people. I know you must be hurting, that’s why you’re acting like such a jerk.”

Aside from Marcus Li's almost pig-like wailing, the funeral was generally quiet.

Wanshu Zu always felt that if his parents heard the evaluations from the priest and mourners, they would probably be pleased for a while, and then start competing over who deserved the "gentle good person" laurel.

He also wanted to appear more sad, and began to rummage through his memories, going back to when he was younger.

Given that his parents only moved to the United States after they were married, they were more accustomed to verbally sparring in Chinese during arguments at home.

Wanshu Zu began learning Chinese from a young age, influenced by his environment, even before learning English.

When his father pushed his mother to the brink, his mother would clearly enunciate: “Try saying one more word, you stinky idiot.”

His father would reply: “Who’s the idiot? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Wanshu Zu’s first fluent Chinese sentence was highly innovative, fully demonstrating his learning and language talents.

It’s hard to imagine the emotional journey of two adults when their young son, whom they had looked at with expectation and encouraged to speak and practice more, slowly uttered, “What the fuck are you talking about, you stinky idiot.”

His parents, who had been strong their whole lives, began to focus on personal conduct and held countless family meetings to discuss the harm of profanity to humanity.

They later stopped using Chinese when arguing; "shit" and "bitch" flew everywhere.

Wanshu Zu didn’t learn those words; he was more refined than his parents.

It was fine not to think about it, but recalling these memories, Wanshu Zu instead wanted to laugh.

From this, it was clear that Marcus Li was also an ordinary friend; he couldn’t even tell that his own parents were actually two hotheads.

—Otherwise, where did Wanshu Zu’s temper come from?

Did God roll the dice?

Marcus Li’s special quality might only be one thing: Wanshu Zu only had this one friend.

This special quality also quickly ceased to be special.

Wanshu Zu returned to China and met Li Yamin.

His always-ignored roommate saw him lose his temper in the dorm and grabbed him as he was leaving.

Only then did he ask the person on the phone, who was Li Yamin.

The roommate immediately introduced himself: I am Li Yamin.

Wanshu Zu began to scrutinize him, just as he had spent some time scrutinizing his new environment when he first returned to China.

Looking back, signs of Li Yamin’s foolishness were apparent from the very beginning.

Marcus Li was also foolish, but it was based on emotional intelligence, willingly acting foolish.

Li Yamin didn’t seem to be acting; acquired effort was insignificant in the face of innate

advantages, and even in the realm of foolishness, masters were abundant.

After that movie won an award, Wanshu Zu and the main creative team had just finished their acceptance speeches when he was knocked dizzy.

Li Yamin: “Awesome, brother, when did you learn French?”

Wanshu Zu also wanted to ask him when he learned the iron mountain shoulder strike, rubbing his aching ribs: “Why are you playing 'charging boar' with me in a suit?”

The main creative team nearby burst into laughter, wanting to heavily pat Wanshu Zu’s back.

Their hands swung halfway, but survival instinct suddenly appeared, and they all changed trajectory, their hands landing on Li Yamin’s shoulders instead, almost pushing the tall man of over 1.8 meters into the ground.

That night, they all drank a lot, only Wanshu Zu didn’t touch a drop of alcohol.

When the group was completely drunk, Wanshu Zu was the one who contacted people to get them back to the hotel.

There were many people, so they had to split into several cars.

Li Yamin refused to get in, gazing at the clear night sky, and asked Wanshu Zu if it was going to rain.

Wanshu Zu gave him a punch on the head, and he jumped up: “Damn, it’s hail! It hit my head!”

He then grabbed Wanshu Zu’s hand and ran wildly along the road, saying he needed to find shelter from the hail.

He hadn’t run two steps before feeling nauseous, stumbled, and started throwing up into a street trash can.

That night, on the way back to the hotel, no trash can on that road was spared.

But Li Yamin was very proud, rolling around on the hotel carpet like a caterpillar, saying they had escaped the hail disaster.

Wanshu Zu really wanted to go over and give him two more punches to let him know he hadn’t actually escaped, but Li Yamin rolled a few times and fell asleep.

He could only carry him to bed and decided to let him have less alcohol.

Later, Li Yamin said he was good at drinking, and Wanshu Zu thought he was full of bullshit.

This wasn’t an isolated incident.

Many things Li Yamin said, if processed by an ordinary person’s brain, would lead to a similar conclusion: "What idiot is spewing nonsense again?"

His words couldn't be taken seriously.

Even if he himself firmly believed them, it was best to ignore them; he would turn around and forget them himself.

Humans had countless wonderful and precise words to describe ivory, but what was ivory in the eyes of a little dog?

Chekhov wrote: “Two long, meatless bones sticking out of its mouth.”

This description was too much like a little dog.

If it could fully understand human language, it would definitely nod repeatedly, its tail wagging like a propeller.

In Wanshu Zu’s eyes, Li Yamin was such a primal, crude, inarticulate yet wondrous little dog.

No matter his age, he always carried a childlike sensibility that was often difficult to comprehend; one had to shift one’s thinking to understand his thought process.

Then, they returned to China, went abroad to study, and then returned to China again, starting the first step of their careers.

New Year arrived.

In America, Chinese Americans would usually celebrate the New Year, whether it was Wanshu Zu’s family or the Li family next door with Little Li.

Adults would habitually say “Happy Chinese New Year,” and explain to the children why “Chinese” had to be added.

Americans didn’t have this custom, and larger family gatherings couldn’t be organized.

Colleagues invited by parents would understand it as a holiday similar to Christmas.

Old Li next door was a lawyer, meticulous about the precise meaning of words, and explained that it had nothing to do with God, no one was resurrected today, it was a day for family reunion.

His colleague suddenly understood: “Oh, so it’s Thanksgiving.”

Wanshu Zu’s parents: “We don’t really eat turkey, and we don’t kill Native Americans.”

Americans had beliefs.

Saying bad things about Christ might cause disaster, but if you asked them how Native Americans died, they had no qualms whatsoever, unlike a delicious, fragrant big turkey.

Now, no one celebrated the New Year with Wanshu Zu.

From New Year’s Eve, he continuously heard firecrackers from home.

The Spring Festival Gala was more boring year by year.

He only observed which artists were performing that year, what achievements they had made, and what projects or connections gave them that opportunity.

Li Yamin suddenly called.

After connecting, he was breathless for a long time, then, catching his breath, told Wanshu Zu to open the window.

Wanshu Zu hadn’t moved into a more secure apartment at that time.

His floor wasn’t high.

He opened the window and looked down to see a delivery guy with a large bag standing in a snowdrift downstairs.

“Happy New Year, Azu,” Li Yamin said on the other end of the phone.

This sentence was transformed into a shriveled data stream, originating from downstairs, flowing through base stations thousands of meters away, making a long detour, sprinkled with fine snow, and finally transmitted into the room upstairs.

Wanshu Zu: “Happy New Year.”

Li Yamin: “All good, all good. First, open the access control; I can’t get up.”

Wanshu Zu fully understood the earth-shattering feeling his parents had when they heard profanity from his mouth.

It was hard to understand.

Li Yamin’s family had several members.

It was fine if they lived their own lives normally, but the New Year always called for more formality, gathering together, and whoever left first would be scolded.

Yet this person was wearing a delivery uniform, delivering food to him?

But it wasn’t entirely incomprehensible.

An actor with good acting skills but unable to take care of himself in life was a genius.

An actor with good acting skills but unable to take care of himself in life, and so self-righteous that it frequently made people laugh in exasperation, was a foolish trouble-maker.

An actor with good acting skills but unable to take care of himself in life, and so self-righteous that it frequently made people laugh in exasperation, who then, after sighing, would still huddle together to watch the Spring Festival Gala, was Li Yamin.

Incidentally, the delivery guy Li Yamin brought was a damned turkey, already stone cold.

After being heated in the oven, it became dry firewood; taking a bite felt like it would break your teeth.

Wanshu Zu felt nothing when his parents died.

Yet, while eating turkey and watching the Spring Festival Gala with Li Yamin, he recalled that funeral where only Marcus Li shed tears.

The feeling came too late, and Wanshu Zu even doubted if it originated from himself.

The silence of the funeral extended to this day.

Even during the New Year’s Eve countdown, the firecrackers outside the window seemed quiet.

Only Li Yamin’s incessant complaints about the noise in his home were heard.

When Wanshu Zu liked something, he truly liked it, pouring his heart out, feeling that Li Yamin had countless shining points worth him stopping time for.

A sparkle often represented the entire process of “dim—brilliant—dim,” just like a human life, with birth and death at two ends, and the middle part being long or short depending on one’s abilities.

For a long time, Wanshu Zu firmly believed that he could make the sparkle freeze into eternity.

Li Yamin didn't need to conform to the natural laws of fluctuating development.

Li Yamin’s family was not the white children who abandoned kittens, and he was not a frail kitten.

As long as he was grasped early, those eyes would remain as bright as ever.

Wanshu Zu held the same conviction for every person and every goal he set his eyes on.

Later, Wanshu Zu discovered that he neither pursued nor needed eternity.

But it was difficult for a person to explain the source of their own changes, especially for Wanshu Zu.

His current pursuits always occupied all past space, and he was, moreover, not good at recalling memories.

At the funeral, he could only think of his parents cursing each other.

At the New Year with only his friend, he thought of that funeral again.

Now, he wondered why Li Yamin, in his thirties, was still that Li Yamin?

One couldn’t stay at a funeral forever, nor could one stay at New Year forever.

When he was unknown, Wanshu Zu could accompany him to vomit into every trash can on the French avenue.

Li Yamin could also put on a delivery uniform and wave at him downstairs.

But now, there weren’t just two people on this road.

Two people were looking in two directions; one wanted to move forward, one started to retreat.

Wanshu Zu really couldn’t go back to that New Year’s time.

Li Yamin asked him why, and started talking about the past again.

For him, “the past” held no weight; only the present could make his initial decisions.

His past self shaped his present self, and his present self would decide his future self—to seize the future, he had to seize the present.

Wanshu Zu couldn’t confirm if he had changed or not.

Marcus Li thought he hadn't changed, while Li Yamin thought he was vastly different from the past.

His two friends came to completely opposite conclusions, and it seemed neither conclusion needed to be cared about.

Wanshu Zu just liked shiny things.

…

Wanshu Zu simply believed there was no need to trace the origin; he only needed to remove impurities and merge the two into one.

Wanshu Zu liked it, Wanshu Zu wanted it, so Wanshu Zu got it.

That was all.

Oh, right, he remembered, the turkey that day was actually delicious.

Towards the end of the year, it was when major listed companies began to disclose their fourth-quarter and annual financial reports.

Lishou Entertainment was still in the preparation phase for its listing, only needing to submit three years of historical financial data and future financial plans to regulatory agencies.

Logically, attention should have been on the fates of those listed companies.

Financial reports would determine investors’ confidence for the next year and affect company stock prices; a slight misstep could lead to a massive evaporation of market value.

But this year was very strange; even more attention was focused on Lishou Entertainment, whose financial reports were currently opaque.

Because Li Yamin had registered a new Weibo account that morning, independent of Lishou Entertainment, named [Li Yamin Studio].

At the same time, Lishou Entertainment issued a statement announcing that Mr. Li Yamin had transitioned from an executive director to an independent director.

Independent directors in China generally had no real power, could not hold internal company positions, and had no significant business or professional connections with the company or its operating management.

All sorts of news, big and small, were varied, but the core message was only one—

[Wanshu Zu and Li Yamin had fallen out.]

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