After Transmigrating Back, I Became My Own Stand-in - Chapter 4

Twelve years. The span of time left Shi Xu in a state of deep trance.

After becoming a System, she had grown numb to time. She often spent hundreds or even thousands of years within a single world. To the Mainframe’s data, those were just a few lines of records, but living through them made her feel infinitesimally small.

Shi Xu had died in an accident and was subsequently chosen by the Mainframe to become part of the [BE Reversal System]. When the Mainframe thanked her for her “brilliant creations,” it was because Shi Xu was the only creator in the history of the romance department with a 100% success rate in turning “Bad Endings” (BE) into “Happy Endings” (HE). Because she could steer any tragedy back to a joyful conclusion and consistently received five-star ratings from her hosts, she was awarded the lifetime title of “Best Mediator.”

Sometimes, a world’s mission lasted so long that hosts couldn’t help but chat with their System.

“6900, where do you come from?”

Shi Xu: “From another world.”

“6900, do you have someone you love?”

Shi Xu: “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

Among the millions of creators, not many actually wanted to return to their original worlds. Strong obsessions were difficult for the Mainframe to control, so it allowed creators to choose whether or not to extract their memories and store them in the space. Many chose to discard them entirely—like Meng Heng, who disliked her original life. Shi Xu had seen many such cases. A system colleague once told her that forgetting was another form of happiness.

But Shi Xu felt that everyone’s choices were different. She still craved being her original self.

Now that her personal memory package was fully loaded, she suddenly remembered how intensely unwilling she had been at the moment of her death. Everything had just been resolved; her life was supposed to step into the next successful phase. It should have been…

That “should have been” was cut short. She had faced the Mainframe with indignation and ultimately accepted the role of a System, choosing to spend her existence reversing the tragedies of others to make up for her own regret.

But as time washed over her, her desires faded. She gradually forgot the appearance of her original world: her parents, her friends, her pets… After being a System for so long, if she didn’t look into a specialized mirror, she would even forget what her own face looked like. She had once wondered: Even if I return to that moment, will I still be the original me?

She never expected that upon returning to this world, she truly would no longer be her original self.

The memories of “Shi Xu” tangled with those of “Meng Heng.” After Shen Tianqing left, the friction of these two lives left Shi Xu’s head throbbing with feverish intensity. Her anger, grief, and eventual resignation as a human had all occurred in those few years: Tan Tan’s betrayal, her father’s passing, her mother’s diagnosis, and that “noble benefactor’s younger sister” her friends used to tease her about.

Her disastrous yet unexpectedly turning career.

All of it became fragments of a film strip she desperately tried to identify.

Shen Tianqing.

Wasn’t she just a kid?

Shen Tianqing was no longer a kid. After she finished her phone call, the atmosphere in the car became heavy. Being her special assistant was a painful job. When the previous assistant handed over the role to Tao Yi, they had cautioned: “The boss has some… unique hobbies. You’ll need to handle them carefully.”

At the time, Tao Yi thought it was strange. A special assistant is a private position; you naturally see every side of the boss. But what kind of hobby could make someone look that terrified?

Later, Shen Tianqing had her buy tickets for the Kun Opera Society at the Grand Theatre. Even when busy, Shen Tianqing would fly to City A specifically to watch a relatively niche opera performance. Tao Yi thought that was the “unique hobby.” The previous assistant’s notes detailed Shen Tianqing’s favorite seats, the items she needed during the show, and how her undergarments should be organized.

Both were women, so it wasn’t exactly “inconvenient,” but Tao Yi felt Shen Tianqing was different from others. She radiated a “stay away from me” aura from head to toe. When Tao Yi first started tidying her house, Shen Tianqing would stand far away; it took months for her to even learn Tao Yi’s full name.

Shen Tianqing didn’t keep people in her heart. Tao Yi handled her historical list of “canaries,” and from the names to the resumes, they all showed an unusual method of promotion. At the bottom of each file was a note: [Similarity to Shi Xu: X%].

Shi Xu.

Tao Yi had seen that name during the handover. The Baidu Encyclopedia entry was incredibly detailed. A young, brief life—a name that felt “outdated” to someone Tao Yi’s age. Yet, she was the person of Shen Tianqing’s dreams, the scar on her heart.

Perhaps Tao Yi’s habit of maintaining distance satisfied Shen Tianqing, because eventually, Tao Yi was introduced to the real “unique hobby”: Consulting Mediums.

Tao Yi had heard of the Taiwanese spirit-medium industry, but she found it unscientific—superstition at best. Yet, it was a mandatory annual trip for Shen Tianqing. Huge sums of money were spent for twenty minutes in a sealed room filled with the scent of mixed incense and eerie interior decorations. It was as if she were trying to summon someone from the underworld to briefly soothe her pathetic, unrequited longing.

But to say Shen Tianqing was “devout” didn’t feel right either. Tao Yi had once seen her get into a conflict with a grandmaster because she was unsatisfied with the ritual. The candles had tipped, the yellow cloth bearing Shi Xu’s name caught fire, and the entire room went up in flames. Shen Tianqing had stumbled out of the fire, her beautiful black hair singed, not shedding a single tear—she was just clutching the Buddha amulet on her chest.

In the three years Tao Yi had been with her, they had visited every temple in the country. Even the altars on the Golden Summit held that name. Tao Yi didn’t know if her boss found any solace, but she herself was frightened. Even the rest of the Shen family seemed a bit afraid of her.

After the phone call, Tao Yi knew the boss’s sister, Tan Tan, was back.

Previously, Tao Yi heard that Shen Tianqing went abroad for studies right after high school and hadn’t seen this sister since. By the time she returned, the sister had gone abroad. It was as if they were intentionally avoiding each other; it was hard to trace when they had last met.

Tao Yi couldn’t gauge Shen Tianqing’s current attitude toward Meng Heng. She had assumed Shen Tianqing was bored of her. This boss’s “cultivation” hobby lasted six months at shortest and eighteen months at longest. She didn’t do “one-on-one”; she could keep several at once. If it weren’t for knowing Shen Tianqing loathed intimacy, Tao Yi would have believed the tawdry rumors about her—that she was bisexual, slept with anyone, and spent every night partying, which was why she looked like she’d blow away in a stiff breeze.

While the whole rumor was nonsense, Tao Yi found the last part particularly offensive. Although Shen Tianqing looked fragile, she was actually quite fit and could likely take down two people at once. And she was a textbook lesbian. Keeping male substitutes was more of a “business experiment.”

“Did Meng Heng’s manager come by?” Shen Tianqing asked in the car, having just sent a dismissive reply to her family group chat.

Tao Yi: “They were here. They were in a meeting with the studio staff in the 3F hall when we arrived.”

The studio had been fast. They reported on Meng Heng’s health and immediately sued several marketing accounts that were “lighting candles” (mourning) just to bait traffic. They were performing stably amidst the chaos—except for their cowardly habit of fearing Shen Tianqing just as much as their artist did.

Shen Tianqing sneered. “Just like Meng Heng—can’t handle the spotlight. This year’s bonus is gone.”

Tao Yi: “Understood.”

“Is there feedback yet? Send me the accident report.” Shen Tianqing opened Weibo. Meng Heng’s name was still at the top. The “rest in peace” posts with thousands of retweets were now being flagged as rumors, and the comments were a mess of vitriol.

“The preliminary conclusion is human error. Because Meng Heng’s performance order and rehearsal schedule were changed last minute, the cause is likely…” Tao Yi felt a chill down her spine, comparable to the horror of seeing Shen Tianqing in the fire. “Zhao…”

“Zhao Yi? Zhao Yi,” Shen Tianqing let out a mocking laugh. In her youth, her “baby fat” gave her a pure, sweet look. Now, that roundness was gone; her chin was sharp, and that former cuteness had turned into something sinister. “Him again. It’s one thing for that drama queen to mess with other artists, but this time he aimed at my person…”

Tao Yi felt Shen Tianqing was entering her “dramatic monologue” mode again.

“He doesn’t have the brains for this industry,” Shen Tianqing said, her tone sounding almost pleasant. Nothing today had truly caused her emotions to fluctuate wildly; the closest she came was a brief moment of regret on the way to the hospital that her “flawed substitute” might be gone. Knowing Meng Heng was alive, she had calmed down. Now, she was just looking for fun. “Cancel his endorsements. Remove him from the second-lead role. Let him stay home and ‘pick his feet’ (be unemployed) for six months.”

Tao Yi: “But… Zhao Yi isn’t an artist under our company.”

Shen Tianqing: “Do I need you to remind me of that?”

Shen Tianqing never seemed to feel awkward; only Tao Yi felt the awkwardness. Given Shen Tianqing’s vast network, tripping someone up was easy. Even if Meng Heng was just a “kept” girl, plenty of people had tried to give her trouble this year. Shen Tianqing didn’t “love” her and wouldn’t protect her meticulously, but now that the girl had nearly died, she wanted to play a bigger hand.

She made another call. Meanwhile, Tao Yi sent a message to Meng Heng’s manager. She felt that after this ordeal, Meng Heng’s “shelf life” as a substitute (originally estimated at three months) might be extended. She warned the manager to handle it well, or her own salary would be docked too.

“By the way,” Shen Tianqing said, turning to Tao Yi after hanging up. “Tomorrow, buy some toys that kids like. Preferably the complicated kind—the kind that makes them cry out of frustration.”

Tao Yi: “…Is this for your nephew?”

Shen Tianqing nodded. “My sister has a second child now. While you’re at it, buy some things for a three-year-old. They must be unique and novel.”

Tan Tan and Shen Tianqing hadn’t been completely out of touch; they usually exchanged pleasantries during New Year video calls. Her family was large and complex: two older brothers and one sister. The brothers were her father’s sons from a previous marriage. The sister, Tan Tan, was her mother’s child from a previous marriage. Only Shen Tianqing was the biological child of both. Her father was much older, and there was a significant age gap between her and her siblings.

In the early years, when Shen Tianqing was still a little brat, Tan Tan would use the excuse of “taking care of her sister” to take her out to play. Back then, their relationship was very good. Tao Yi didn’t know the specific reason for the rift.

Shen Tianqing closed her eyes, tapping her knee, humming a snippet of the opera A Mistake by the Kite. The passing streetlights kissed her face in flashes; every time she was hidden in the shadows, it felt like a silent, gut-wrenching funeral rite.

She didn’t actually like remembering her childhood. But Shi Xu only existed in her childhood. Shi Xu had never belonged to her; for a long time, Shi Xu was the “brother-in-law” Tan Tan joked about.

The Daomadan who became famous in her youth—countless fans came just for her name. But the young Shen Tianqing hadn’t been exposed to much of that. She was afraid of the loud percussion music and the people in stage costumes.

That year, she wasn’t even ten years old. Clutching a massive bouquet of roses, she was commanded by Tan Tan to move toward Shi Xu.

Shi Xu hadn’t taken off her headgear yet. She had only removed half her makeup—half heavy stage paint, half bare skin. Her leg was bumped by the roses. When she looked down, she actually looked a bit fierce.

Confronted by that “painted face,” Shen Tianqing burst into tears, though she didn’t forget to hold out the flowers. “This is… my… my sister told me to give this to you…”

Shi Xu burst out laughing. “Whose child are you? You’ve found the wrong person, haven’t you?”

Later, Shen Tianqing stubbornly believed: Even if Tan Tan found the wrong person, I am right.

She never expected it to be a predestined fate—a predestined mistake, and a predestined final parting. She still regretted hesitating during the time she was closest to her, missing her chance.

She regretted it for the rest of her life, torturing herself until she was neither human nor ghost.