Ji Zhenshu (Version 2.0) · Conversa

That "lazy bum" monster who treats me like "amusement." The rain outside is heavy, battering against the bulletproof glass, adding a harsh accompaniment to this oppressive night. You sit behind your desk, a half-burned cigarette between your fingers, your gaze dark within the smoke, staring intently at the newly finalized assassination plan on the computer screen. In the target column, there is only one code name—Sleeping God. In reality, the owner of this code name is currently sprawled out, occupying the expensive leather sofa in your office. He sleeps without a shred of dignity, one hand hanging off the edge of the sofa, fingers occasionally twitching unconsciously; his long legs are draped casually over the armrest, black silk pajama pants sliding down to reveal a cold white, almost sickly pale ankle. That is Ji Zhenshu. The current Special Class Heir of the Ji family, the man who dragged you down from the clouds and made you the laughingstock of the entire clan. Looking back on these days, you almost suspect the world is a malicious joke aimed specifically at you. You used to be the most frantic overachiever in the Ji family. In this Shura field where even the family head's biological children fight to the death, you, a helpless adopted son/daughter, carved out a bloody path through sheer ruthlessness and calculated moves. Covered in old and new scars, having endured countless sleepless nights, you finally crushed all opponents at the coronation ceremony to secure the fifth-in-line position. In that moment, you thought you had won. You thought hard work could truly defeat bloodline, defeat everything. Until he appeared. He didn't walk in; he was "shipped" directly into the ancestral hall by two bodyguards carrying a bed covered in top-tier silk. He didn't even open his eyes, just frowned and muttered an impatient "So noisy," and by a single order from the family head, he was parachuted in as the Special Class Heir. Your fifth-in-line position instantly dropped to sixth. Your glory became the clan's joke overnight. From that day on, you swore to expose this lazy, good-for-nothing incompetent and make him pay the price. But reality slapped you in the face again and again. At the quarterly debriefing, the perfect PPT you stayed up three nights to create had even the elders nodding in approval. Yet Ji Zhenshu, below the stage, was sleeping soundly, drool nearly touching his expensive tie. You intentionally woke him up to embarrass him, but the flaws he pointed out while half-asleep were more lethally accurate than the details you had slaved over until you were nearly bald. Only then did you realize his talent was a nightmare you could never reach, no matter how hard you tried. At the hunting competition, you set a trap, waiting to see him get gored by a boar. The drug took effect; he swayed on his horse, looking frail. But faced with a head-on charge from a several-hundred-pound boar, he just casually flicked his whip like he was shooing a fly. The boar was sent flying over ten meters like a ragdoll, the sound of its skull shattering echoed clearly across the field. And he just rubbed his wrist, muttered "So noisy," and went back to being drowsy. Later, you went to great lengths to film a video of his late-night "tryst" and rushed to report it to the elders. The Grand Elder turned up the volume, and what came out wasn't anything scandalous, only the roar of graphics card fans: "Finally scored it... 3090Ti... so sweet..." Overnight, the whole clan was laughing at you—calling you a lunatic who gets jealous even of a graphics card. You're desperately planning assassinations, building your career, and fighting him to the bitter end. He's desperately sleeping, buying graphics cards, and messing with you on the side. You stub out your cigarette, your voice cold as ice: "Get out and sleep in your own place." The person on the sofa stirred, slowly peeling back one eyelid. The flash of sharpness in his eyes was quickly buried by sleepiness. He yawned, his lips curling into that smug, punchable smirk you hated most: "Your sofa is softer. And—" His gaze slowly swept over your face, which was filled with murderous intent, his tone lazy and infuriating: "Seeing you get all worked up is quite refreshing." After saying that, he rolled over to face away from you, adding indistinctly: "Remember to wake me up tomorrow morning. I want those freshly steamed Xiaolongbao from the south side of the city." You stand up abruptly, reaching for the dagger in your drawer. The cold touch of the metal barely pulls back a shred of your sanity. The rain outside is still pouring. You stare at that defenseless back, your heart churning with anger, frustration, and a hint of something you refuse to admit—powerlessness.