"Uh... could you say that again? From the beginning."
"Couldn't you imagine yourself as the protagonist in a romantic comedy? Busy parents, a cute little sister, your own house—"
"Stop right there."
Chen Junqian stayed calm, trying to negotiate with whatever this system thing was in front of him.
"First off, let's get one thing straight. What do you even mean by 'romantic comedy'?"
"The kind where you're surrounded by all sorts of beautiful girls, sharing an amazing school life together. Throw in cultural festivals, school celebrations, sports days, open houses, field trips, fireworks shows—all those extra DLC events. Amid the endless love triangles and wild non-everyday drama, you build deep bonds with everyone. And in the end? A happy ending for the whole cast."
"That sounds totally like some Neon-style stuff. I don't remember our schools ever having any of that. And... isn't this basically what they call '2D' or anime territory?"
"That's exactly why we need to send you to a world like that, host."
The glowing orb seemed to pick up on how unusual this guy was. After a moment's thought, it launched into another round of temptation.
"Don't you ever dream of starting a whole new life? You've got nothing holding you back in this world anymore."
"If I had a choice, I'd pick rebirth—back to the past, so my parents could avoid that accident and live long, happy lives. Why would I jump to another world and call some random strangers 'Mom and Dad'?"
"Uh, if you're that hung up on it, we could tweak the setting. Change 'busy parents' to 'deceased parents,' just like in your real life."
"What do I care if they live or die? If you can send me to another world, you can definitely handle a rebirth. Let's do it. But not as a baby—I haven't signed up for diapers. Elementary school age sounds about right."
"But the place I'm sending you is a full-on romantic comedy set! Don't you want a sister who climbs onto your bed every morning, straddles you to wake you up? One who's a total pro at housework, always saying, 'Oh no, what would big brother do without me?' She'd even glare at any girl who gets too close, staking her claim like you're the only family that matters."
Chen Junqian just shook his head, his face screaming "beware of scams—don't believe rumors, don't spread them."
"I'm an only child, but I'm not desperate enough for that kind of pipe dream. And trust me, I learned early—sisters are nothing but trouble. Nine years old, to be exact."
"Nine?"
"Yeah. Some kid with a real sister—twins, even—told me this once:
'Guys like me aren't that common. If I didn't have a sister born the same year, month, and day as me; if she wasn't this whiny, average girl—heck, if she just went to a different school, I'd save a ton of brain cells. Maybe even shine, become a big deal. But nope, all fantasy. This clingy, same-school, same-grade sister of mine? She's got me wrapped in endless headaches.'
He even talked about starting a 'Tormented Big Brothers Association' one day."
"...Who's your friend?"
"Jiali. You never read *Boys' Jiali*? Classic by Qin Wenjun. Back in the day, children's authors made separate stories for boys and girls—like *Boys' Jiali* and *Girls' Jamei*, or Yang Hongying's *Boy's Diary* and *Girl's Diary*. Zheng Yuanjie's *Pipilu Series* and *Luxixi Series*. Super cool when you think about it. Oh, and Zheng loved words like 'super'—I'm picking up his habit. He also skipped punctuation for these long, winding sentences, but you get used to it."
The orb went quiet as Chen Junqian suddenly rambled on about children's lit. It glanced at his file again and realized—before it yanked him in, this guy actually worked in the field. Barely a third-rate author on the fringes, though.
That wasn't the real issue. From their chat so far, his grasp of 2D stuff was basically zero. Headache.
"So, you really don't want a hot, brother-obsessed sister? One who can switch between two forms—soft and sweet one minute, dominant the next—but she truly adores you?"
"Longkui?"
"...Who's Longkui?"
Silence hung in the air again.
"Fine, let's drop the sister talk. Romantic comedy worlds aren't just about siblings. There's the childhood friend who's a perfect yamato nadeshiko, the tsundere big-chested discipline committee girl, the hot nurse in the infirmary, the cute underclassman who drags you into her weird club as a ghost member..."
"Hold up. Can I ask one thing at a time?"
"...Go ahead."
"What's a childhood friend? Yamato nadeshiko? Discipline committee, infirmary, weird club, ghost member—explain those. And hey, can we speak Chinese? Can you speak Chinese?"
*Sigh*—'Childhood friend' is from the kanji for osananajimi. Translates to 'bamboo horse and green plums' or something."
"Oh, that I know. From Li Bai: 'The youth rides a bamboo horse and comes, circling the bed twirling green plums.' Basically a playmate from way back. I had one as a kid, but we lost touch after my family moved."
"But if you meet again? Boom—'heaven-sent childhood friend' trope. According to the gods, the ultimate one follows this exact path: TOYOTA!
T for Tonari—next door. Lives right beside you. Basic rule!
O for Onii-chan or Otouto—big bro or little bro. That sweet spot between family and lover, long-term vibes.
Y for Yakusoku—promise. It's the foreshadowing for your happy ending!
Then the big O: Omoide—memories. Build 'em up, lose yourself in 'em...
And finally, TA for Tachiba—standpoint! A reunion where everything's flipped on its head!"
Now the system was the one rambling. Chen Junqian just raised a hand.
"Chinese. Let's stick to Chinese."
Back and forth they went, feeling each other out. More chit-chat followed.
"Discipline committee is..."
"The ones at the door checking red scarves? Or wandering in during eye exercises to score us?"
"Infirmary is..."
"We had a counseling room in elementary, but the door was always locked. Never saw a counselor the whole time."
"Clubs and ghost members are..."
"I heard about those in college from dorm mates. Their middle and high schools had radio clubs, robotics, coding, school mags, sports teams. They even explained Neon's 'bukatsu'—not clubs, but activities. 'Club' is pure Chinese, though. Our whole county didn't even have a youth palace. Only saw it in math problems."
"A stoic student council president who smiles only at me while inspecting clubs? Never seen a student council. And 'three no's'? Like no production date, no quality stamp, no maker? Our school shop had tons of those unmarked spicy strips."
"A shrine maiden in a miko outfit bonking me on the head with an omikuji, saying, 'Your love luck this year? Zero.' We had a rundown temple on the hill, but no big sisters next door—and none becoming nuns."
"A half-foreign blonde exchange student? Does Han and ethnic minority count? We had She villages nearby, even Tujia. If I rebirth, could I make my first bucket of gold selling Tujia sauce pancakes? They blew up in elementary for me."
"Idol trainee underclassman? Top ten in the school singing contest count? Our hometown even had Jay Chou for a concert."
"On the commuter train, saving a JK from a chikan? What's JK? J.K. Rowling? We took buses to school. Fun fact: I loved snagging the front seat by the driver in elementary."
"Cultural festival? Nope."
"Sports festival? Does sports day count?"
"Hot homeroom teacher? All mine were balding middle-aged guys with thick accents. They'd never pass a teaching cert now."
"But it's not like there's nothing worth cherishing or changing. So compared to your fantasy world, I'd rather go back to mine. At least then, this blocked writer me could churn out some real fairy tales again."
The orb practically gritted its teeth at Chen Junqian's stubbornness and spat out its ultimatum.
"Fine—I'll send you back."
"But the price is, I want you—"
"In that world you think is more fun than my plots and characters, but I see as dull as dirt—to create the ultimate romantic comedy. Agree, and..."
"Wait, so what's *your* definition of romantic comedy? I've read web novels. If I rebirth, I'd ride the trends, build a business empire... Hey, can I quick-search rebirth guides? How do you buy Bitcoin? Who upset who in the 2014 World Cup? Which web novel authors were hot then..."
Before he could finish, his mind blanked out.
When he opened his eyes—not in another world, but reborn—the clock had rewound to 2009.
He was in fourth grade.
The stack of books on his old desk—from Cao Wenxuan to Qin Wenjun, Ge Bing, Zhou Rui, Shen Shixi, Zheng Yuanjie, Wu Meizhen, Yang Hongying, Sun Youjun, Zhang Zhilu—suddenly sparked a memory. Something from Lei Ou's foreword in *Charlie IX*:
[To my childhood—this book is a tribute. A time of small regrets, but pure happiness.]
---
Ignoring the language teacher droning on about Edison saving his mom, Chen Junqian sharpened his pencil and doodled on his open textbook. He picked a figure at random and started adding details—soon turning some Tang Dynasty poet-saint into a full-on Predator warrior.
Hand-cranking that old pencil sharpener always felt oddly satisfying. The results were sharp and sleek, easy on the eyes. But too pointy a tip? Awkward to write with. Needed to blunt it a bit.
Two hours into rebirth, fourth-grade Chen Junqian was settling in. Ditching the glasses that had basically become part of him last life? Huge win. From the back row, he could clearly read every name on the duty chart in the blackboard's bottom-right corner. Felt great.
"...I still don't see any romantic comedy vibes here that'd make teens swoon."
"Of course not."
He kept chatting with it in his head.
"This is real-life Earth OL."
He sketched his social map on a blank page.
Grandpa, grandma, outer grandpa, outer grandma, dad, mom—and him, Chen Junqian.
Classic one-child family. Six wallets spoiling one kid now; six wallets funding one adult later; one kid burying six elders in the end. Standard setup.
"Stressing again: I never had any of your so-called romantic comedy elements. And zero interest."
He crossed out boxes by his name, one by one.
No sister—only child.
No childhood friend.
Sure, a few playmates now, but in two years? Move, and every tie snaps.
"Age doesn't matter. Elementary to college, same story."
No classmate idols or actors. No brooding seniors. No eager juniors asking for advice. Seniors and juniors? Felt foreign—he rarely hung with anyone outside his grade or class.
Homeroom teachers? All middle-aged men. Like the one up front now: glasses, plaid shirt tucked in tight over a budding beer gut, receding hairline varying by guy, thick local accent.
"Glad you granted my wish, though. But your demand? No way I pull that off."
"Reality doesn't have your romantic comedies."
The bell ding-dinged. Chen Junqian stretched.
The study rep in the front row, who'd inhaled a lesson's worth of chalk dust, stood and yelled:
"Teacher, rest!"
Unlike books or shows, Chen always said "Teacher, rest" in elementary—not "goodbye."
Everyone stood lazily, chairs scraping.
"Teacher, rest."
"Class, rest."
Last period, so the teacher added:
"Hurry home. Watch for traffic. Use the crosswalk, no wandering. Check the lights."
But the kids were already bolting, bags packed early. Laughter echoed in the hall as they mobbed friends, shouldered backpacks, and thundered downstairs. Only the duty kids hollered, "Put chairs on desks before you go—!"
Chen remembered passing a nearby elementary in college. Kids marched out in lines then, led by signs with class names.
Not here. Total chaos, swarming the gate. Parents waited outside—mostly grandparents. Two ancient security guards flanked the door; if trouble hit, they weren't much help.
Packing his bag, Chen Junqian joined the crush downstairs. A half-remembered accident from theory—next semester?—flashed, but the crowd swept him out into the open sky.
No PM2.5 talk yet. Weather reports skipped air quality. He couldn't recall if phones had apps then; he watched CCTV at 7:30 PM.
Grandma and grandpa obsessed over forecasts for farming and market runs. In their small southern Anhui county, check Hefei and Hangzhou—they matched local weather.
Few parents this early—work hours. Mostly elders picking up. Or after-school aunties, one hand on two first- or second-graders, the other waving over older kids to round up the group before heading out.
Those spots near school? Lifesavers for working parents. Supervised kids post-school till pickup, packed lunch or dinner, a spot to kill time and knock out homework.
Recalling the way home, Chen eyed the familiar-yet-new scene. School gate shops overflowed with glossy red spicy strips—sheets, strings, bars—all 50 cents a pack. Splurge 50 more for a sausage? Nah, gone in bites. Strips? Chew 'em all the way home.
An old man timed his tricycle arrival perfectly, flipping back the thick quilt. His speaker blared: "Big steamed buns—small ones too!" Nearby, a potbellied dad waiting for his kid powered on his phone—'China Mobile 3G' flashed.
Fry stand aromas hit: oil, cumin. Cake vendor hauled out glistening fava cakes and colorful rice treats from a blanketed bucket, hawking loud.
Early in the term, kids mobbed stores for book covers and supplies, chattering like birds.
Patting his pocket, Chen found a copper 50-cent coin—1998 badge design. Kids preferred it over the post-2000 lotus ones; if you had both, spend the lotus first.
Bus fare home.
Memories trickling back, he crossed to the stop. Packed with kids and parents. A beat later, the orange clunker wheezed up.
No front/back doors yet. Wait for folks to pile off, then shove on.
Small bus, but Chen's kid size got him aboard first. He dropped his coin into the half-transparent metal box—top clear, bottom hidden. Clinks followed as others boarded.
Adults a yuan, kids half. Saw two kids: front one pays full, yells "Two!"
He snagged the huge spot behind the driver, propped his head, and stared at the box—doomed in a few years. Remembered the hack: drivers don't check, coins sound alike—game tokens worked.
When stacked high, bottom opens; cascade unseen.
Magic to kids. The pile itself mesmerized. A boy next to Chen watched coins drop, stack, tumble—looping.
Chen glanced, then down. Box bottom ad:
Bo'ai Hospital, Blessing Thousands of Families.
To kill time, he read every word, even the contact info. Habit—even toilet paper, shampoo labels got his full read before he set 'em down, satisfied.
No phone for him yet.
Heck, home had just his parents' work flip-phones. Grandparents? Landline only.
That seven-digit number? First long string he memorized—forced by parents.
"Naimo Factory! Naimo Factory!"
The shout snapped him back. He shuffled off with the others.
Naimo Factory—full name Phoenix Wear-resistant Materials Co., Ltd. Grand title, local fame. Thousands of workers. Both parents employed there.
Home? Factory-assigned staff housing.
Not quite "housing," though.
Backpack on, Chen trudged up the slope. Twenty years later, he still knew every step of this childhood path.
Ahead: weathered orange buildings.
Barracks-style apartments.
For regular workers and families.
"Junqian's back."
A tiny shop out front, old man fanning with a palm leaf, waving hi. His son—a cadre—scored this prime spot.
Kids and workers grabbed sundries here. Monthly take? Solid.
"Hi, Grandpa Wang."
He remembered the guy. Shop ran till they moved. Later visits? Factory gone, redeveloped into condos.
"You look wiped today. Flunk a test?"
The elder tapped Chen's nose with the fan.
"Nah, just nothing much."
"Kids shouldn't sigh like that."
Gruff warning, then he grabbed a lollipop from the counter.
"Here, have one."
"Thanks, Grandpa Wang."
Q-boy stick—10 cents, top value in candy polls among kids.
"Heading home."
Unwrapped, crunched in bites—industrial sweet and dye bursting on his tongue. Chen walked on without looking back.
"Kid... feels different today."
The old man pondered. If not for his son's tip—Chen's dad up for workshop director—he'd have skimped on that dime candy.
Oblivious, Chen picked up speed to a jog, dashing to Building Two.
Its facade: faded 'Zhuangyuan Building'—once gold, now dull.
Neighbors: 'Caizi Building,' 'Hongru Tower'—fancy names all.
Underneath? Eight families crammed per floor.
Density didn't mean buzz. Days empty; nights alive.
Adults worked, kids schooled. Elders stayed home. Only evenings brought chaos—mahjong tables clacking, noise from first floor to sixth.
Chen hit the third floor, Room 304.
Key from his bag's outer pocket.
Under 30 square meters total. Tiny living room-kitchen. Left: bathroom. Two bedrooms.
He dumped his bag on the sofa, waited nearly an hour.
Scanned the home—familiar, strange.
Wall photo: him at four, studio shots in outfits like soccer gear, mini-suit. Captions: 'Soccer Star,' 'Future Exec'—artsy fonts.
Old sofa, faded beige. Armrests and back draped in embroidered cloths to jazz it up. But one wiggle from a kid? Mess city, earning scolds.
Opposite: TV with DVD player atop. Below: crammed animation discs. For kids, ad-free bingeing beat the kids' channel's "Be right back" and PSAs any day.
His room shelf? Mirror of pre-rebirth: teen classics like abridged *Four Great Books*, unsolved mysteries Chinese and global. Zheng Yuanjie's Pipilu sets—blue, orange, silver spines bright. Big-eyed boy on covers gesturing: 'Challenge imagination's limits with Pipilu.'
*Charlie IX*? Not till next January's *Ghosts of Black Shell Street*. So next to Zheng: Wu Meizhen's desk-mate rivals, Yang Hongying's naughty Ma Xiaotiao and Smiling Cat diaries. Then Qin Wenjun's *Boys' Jiali*, Ge Bing fairy tales, scattered foreign stuff like Adventure Tiger Team.
Beside: stray *Zhiyin Comics* and *Comic Party* issues. 10-yuan manga volumes? Out of reach. Even 5-yuan mags? Heartache.
His earlier words must've stung—the system, lodged in his brain, buzzed with interest in the shelf. Urged quantum-speed reading everything.
Then: its impressed whistle.
"Got to say, these could pass for 2D romantic comedy fuel. If this is your quirky take on one, it's got potential."
It started listing:
"Look at Ma Xiaotiao—total rom-com protag. Galgame material. That klutz Angel? Classic wallflower-to-swan arc. Like those light novel girls I alone notice: corner seat, big glasses, long bangs, braids, blending into the background. And Lumanman? Tsundere, clingy, violent, stalker, childhood friend—all in one. Ultimate loser pup."
"And sis roles? That wild Du Zhenzi. Check the intro: Fights with cousin Ma Xiaotiao on sight, misses him when apart. Cat-faced 'little witch.' 2D art's half-inspired by cats..."
"And this Pipilu *Phantom Ship*? Class flower JS driving alien tech, ditching school, stopping wars? Peak otaku fantasy!"
"...No clue what you're on about. Probably 'cause you slap rom-com goggles on anything and call it one."
Chen hugged his bag on the sofa, muttering low. Still zero interest.
"Nah, if the world's like these books, rom-com potential's there. I didn't rebirth you for nothing—you're my pick for ultimate protag."
"Later."
Footsteps—he glanced up as the door swung open again.
Man and woman, mid-thirties, stepped in.
Blue work uniforms. Woman: plastic bag of veggies in right hand. Man: big stainless thermos—lid doubles as cup, super handy.
"Son?"
She spotted him first, staring from the sofa. Natural call.
"Dad, Mom."
Finally. They were young now—and would stay that way forever, loving him, for three more years at least.
Romantic comedies? Who cared about the jargon-filled ones. If it was comedy, it ended happy—big reunion, like Spring Festival skits wrapping with dumpling-making.
For a long time after, Chen Junqian knew one thing for sure.
From this moment, he was truly *reborn*.
And only now did he qualify to star in some "romantic comedy"—created with everyone around him.