Chapter 13

Little Snowball seemed to really like the ice slide.

The System had finally finished picking up the scattered data and was about to put it back in when it intended to find its Host, Yàn Sǔn was already flying down the ice slide for the tenth time, holding his little arms, wearing the medal Mu Yu had given him, his eyes shining brightly.

Driven by his desire for the slide, he once again broke through his own limits and learned the rather complicated phrase, “Again.”

Four whole words, spoken in one breath, clear and distinct.

… In the original timeline, Mother Yan, during a live broadcast teaching session, had displayed her skillful and elegant parenting techniques, using a stack of flashcards, she had gently and patiently taught for over ten days, yet still couldn't get Yàn Sǔn to do it.

Mu Yu had taught Little Snowball to say “Again,” and he had also taught Little Snowball how to play on the ice slide.

Yàn Sǔn refused to be carried up every time. As soon as he saw Mu Yu walking more, he would wind around and hold onto Mu Yu’s right leg, like a persistent little pendant that couldn’t be removed.

So Mu Yu would take Little Snowball to the top of the high steps, then circle back and wait at the bottom of the slide.

The slide would shed ice powder from collision and friction. A Little Snowball covered in ice powder, descending from the sky, looked like a swift glutinous rice ball, excitedly rushing home and flying into the warmest, most secure embrace.

Only when the little guy was completely tired from playing, no longer able to resist stealing glances at the top platform of the big slide, did Mu Yu squat down and help him brush off the ice powder on his body.

The force with which he patted the down jacket was very gentle, like a warm breeze. Yàn Sǔn opened his eyes wide and watched for a while before he understood what Mu Yu was doing.

Yàn Sǔn also reached out his hands and, imitating Mu Yu’s movements, carefully patted Mu Yu gently.

He had been so focused on playing that he was stably caught by Mu Yu every time he slid down, and most of the ice powder naturally landed on that casual jacket.

Yàn Sǔn wanted to sneak a taste, but Mu Yu discovered him, scooped him up, and hugged him.

Little Snowball immediately forgot about whether the ice powder tasted good or not. He buried his head inside the jacket, his little face, frozen white, pressed gently and carefully against Mu Yu.

After changing back into a clean down jacket, he was still unusually attached to Mu Yu’s jacket. Whenever he had the chance, he wanted to touch the sleeves and hem, and wouldn’t let go once he grasped them.

Carrying the “Child Rearing Encyclopedia” borrowed from the Transmigration Bureau’s database, the System found the relevant definition: “Host, this piece of clothing is Yàn Sǔn’s comfort object.”

Mu Yu hugged Little Snowball, who was burying himself in his arms, and asked, “Comfort object?”

“An item that makes him feel safe.” The System rustled through the pages, “A safe haven, a secure base, used to resist separation.”

The book also stated that generally, children aged one to two need comfort objects to replace the sense of security provided by their parents. Children aged three to five are gradually outgrowing this need… but the System decided to ignore this sentence.

“Replacing” the sense of security provided by parents presupposed having a sense of security.

Resisting separation presupposed a reunion so wonderful, so perfect, that separation became terrifying.

The System snapped back to attention, hearing Mu Yu thank it. A ding sounded in the background, and it received another book fund.

At that instant, the System was absolutely certain that its savings were its comfort object: “Ahhhhh Host QAQ!”

Mu Yu smiled, shifted Little Snowball to his other arm, and gently swung his right hand, which held the cane.

He partly unzipped his jacket, making it convenient for the majestic little hero to grab his comfort object.

The little guy, having played to his heart's content, fell asleep quickly. His little head was nestled on Mu Yu’s shoulder, his small face, frozen cold, pressed against his neck. He still didn't want to let go of half the collar of the jacket.

The System wept tears for a moment, then saw Mu Yu's cane and its flowing data paused.

It remembered what it had just seen and floated beside the Host, hesitated for a long time, and then asked softly.

“Is the leg injury because of that movie?”

Mu Yu hadn't considered this question yet. Holding the little guy, he stopped and thought, “Probably not.”

The System was stunned: “…No?”

“Likely not,” Mu Yu discussed it reasonably with it. “I acted in many more movies afterward, and my legs were fine.”

The System: “…”

…That made a lot of sense.

Its Host was the youngest Triple Crown Film Emperor, after all.

Mu Yu had acted in historical dramas and action films, ridden horses, and fought. He had run and fallen across rooftops in one continuous shot. Media descriptions said he was so dedicated that he had “stepped on every rooftop in the film city.”

It was unlikely he would have become lame after his first movie and only taken roles requiring a limp from then on.

The System had been upset for half a day earlier, staring at fragments of data, feeling conflicted about whether to piece them together.

…It was still quite displeased.

*.< | >.

Mu Yu gave it a little red flower: “Thank you.”

The System then became ecstatic, holding the little red flower and showing it off in the work group with eighty messages before remembering to ask: “What are you thanking me for, Host?”

“For deleting that interview,” Mu Yu thought for a moment. “I didn't really like it.”

The System was a bit taken aback again.

It rarely encountered Hosts like Mu Yu.

There was a calm and tolerant serenity in Mu Yu’s words, whether he was describing an event, a person, or analyzing himself.

His emotional fluctuations were minimal, not intense, with very low negative values, and no serious psychological trauma detected—this was an extremely reliable and reassuring trait.

As long as he was with him, one didn't need to do anything special; negative factors encountered would be calmly accepted and digested.

Just like when Mu Yu chatted with the System, he frankly admitted he didn’t like the interview, not because it would lead to painful memories, but for another reason: “I didn’t perform well in the interview.”

The System: “…”

It felt that its Host was perfect in every way, except perhaps too strict with himself: “Host, you weren't standing next to that old—” The System swallowed the last two words, “—person, saying nothing?”

Although the System was angry, it had watched the interview very carefully. Mu Yu was only seventeen at the time, standing next to the so-called teacher, pale and thin, still bearing the gloom, likely not yet fully out of his “Black Swan” role.

The reporter’s microphone hesitated to be extended towards him, as if afraid that any louder sound would shatter him.

Later, Mu Yu reached the pinnacle, holding his third Film Emperor trophy amidst a shower of flowers. When the media reviewed his past, they often sighed with emotion—who could have imagined that the “Black Swan” who had astonished everyone with his performance and was on the verge of death in the role, trapped in the character for ten years without mercy, would eventually temper into a calm and profound stillness?

The System wanted to speak up for Mu Yu at that time again, retorting indignantly: “Host, you were so handsome back then. Your evaluation should respect objective reality.”

Mu Yu considered respectfully for a moment and still gave an objective review: “I was handsome, but my performance was average.”

He said, “I should have said something.”

The System was about to retort further when its Host pulled it over to play Jigsaw puzzle, randomly arranging the data fragments that could no longer be played, forming a lush and upright Poplar.

Mu Yu placed the finished Jigsaw puzzle into a photo frame and asked the System to help him find a suitable place to hang it.

The System picked up the photo frame and headed straight for the bathroom.

It forgot to ask the Host what he had wanted to say in that interview. After hanging the frame, it returned just in time to see Mu Yu’s cane disrupt a 3A jump that a young team member was desperately trying.

Gāo Yìmín’s success had spurred many people on. No one cared about the program recording anymore; these young team members were practicing like mad, tumbling and scrambling onto the ice.

Mu Yu’s cane blocked the way, steadying the stumbling young team member and pushing him back upright: “This is not a shortcut.”

The cane landed precisely with just the right amount of force, resting against the edge of the skate blade, hitting the ice at the perfect angle to calmly hold the person steady.

Mu Yu still had enough energy to spare as he shifted the sleeping, soft, and warm Little Snowball to a more comfortable position—the lighting here was too strong, making the ice rink as bright as day, which greatly affected the child’s sleep.

The young team member’s expression was cold and anxious, his aggression palpable: “What do you know!”

Gāo Yìmín, the simpleton, couldn't keep secrets. He knew that this person had taught Gāo Yìmín the 3A, but even the most formidable coach couldn't help them.

No one could help them; only they themselves could. There were no shortcuts, only relentless practice, squeezing out the time others didn’t use, enduring the hardships others couldn't bear.

These adults who had already found release—

“Don’t be tempted by the idea of ‘enduring hardship,'” Mu Yu said.

The young team member froze abruptly, looking up at him in disbelief.

“This is not a shortcut.”

Mu Yu retracted his cane, “It’s a trap.”

After that interview aired, for at least two to three years, introductory acting classes seriously veered onto a path of extreme dedication, where one had to be crazy to succeed.

The impact of this misguided path became evident years later.

Children who were forced into virtual spaces all received extremely high acting scores and were admitted to good schools. However, after graduation, nearly ninety percent of these individuals chose to switch careers, abandoning acting.

Some even vehemently refused to engage with anything related to it—this kind of “enduring hardship” driven by external pressure to approach success, rather than by genuine passion and pursuit, was not a shortcut to surpass others, but a nightmare.

A preposterous nightmare of “enduring hardship to the death to win,” draining their spiritual energy and passion. Years later, sitting alone in the deep night, with nothing in their hands, unable to understand why they weren't happy.

“…Stop spewing honeyed words,” the young team member gritted his teeth and took a step back. “We all know about you.

You’re treating us as exhibits, just to show how capable you are—you need to increase your rating, otherwise, when the variety show ends, you’ll be a D-class outside.”

The young team member hadn’t left The Greenhouse, but their parents would tell them and they knew: “You’ll be miserable then, not able to eat well, dress well, or live in a good place. Even car plates will be D-class.”

D-class had many restrictions, unable to purchase expensive cars, forbidden from entering core city areas between 7:00 AM and 11:00 PM, and even denied entry to some high-end parking lots.

Mu Yu looked at the information the System had found and discussed it with the System, “How about buying an electric car?”

The System, clutching a thick book titled “Rating Defense Plan,” asked, “…?”

It knew Mu Yu was always very adaptable, but it hadn’t expected him to be adaptable to this extent: “Why does the Host want to buy an electric car?”

“Riding a bicycle hurts my legs,” Mu Yu replied truthfully. “And it's very tiring.”

He wasn't the type to love fitness. If someone were to drive and hit him while he was cycling, and he got tired, he would probably just stop and let them hit him.

“…“The System was convinced by the logic for three seconds, then sobered up, “Host, we can’t drop to D; we need to rise to B.”

The little hero in the Host’s arms was still waiting to be rescued from the fire pit.

An electric car couldn’t be stolen, nor could it have something tied to the back seat. The back seat of an electric car couldn’t carry a passenger.

Mu Yu hadn't intended to drop in rating anyway. He smiled and refocused, no longer making small talk.

“So,” he put away his cane, “Am I capable?”

The young team member choked, somewhat speechless.

“I want to level up, so I came to teach you. You want to get stronger, so you learn from me.”

Mu Yu’s voice was gentle, discussing without haste or impatience: “Where is the problem?”

The young team member: “…”

Good question.

The problem was that there was no problem.

The young team member swallowed silently, desperately raising his vigilance, but his heart began to waver silently.

He couldn’t help but glance at Gāo Yìmín nearby—just now, that simpleton had tried a combination jump according to the new technique again, and his progress was significantly better than before!

Of course, they were nervous about landing the 3A, but not so stimulated to this extent. After all, being able to land it and being able to use it in competition were two completely different concepts.

But if the person who could land the 3A could also practice combination jumps well, performing them smoothly and stably, then even if Coach Yan didn't let him compete, the club would directly push him into competition.

…There were only a few spots, so who wouldn't be anxious? Who could still pretend to be calm and composed?

“Coach Yan said you’re not a good person.”

The young team member covered his ears and repeated like a broken record: “You’re using us as tools and trying to corrupt us.”

Quite a few team members nearby had already looked over. The young team member ranked highly among his peers, having joined early and being older. He had to maintain his position as a senior.

Not everyone was like Gāo Yìmín, who, after learning a little, was easily fooled and blissfully unaware, even taking this Yu the screenwriter to see the aurora borealis every night at the ice rink.

Mu Yu nodded, indicating that he had heard: “Want to come together?”

The young team member: “…”

The System had come to supervise, and seeing the situation, it understood: “Sigh.”

Mu Yu asked curiously, “What’s wrong?”

The System activated its emotional detector and scanned the unyielding young team member: “Only his mouth is still stubborn.”

Children of this age were particularly sensitive to auras. Some people, with stern and imposing auras, could discipline a group of young team members into fear and obedience with three months of stormy training—some people only needed a few casual words.

The System suddenly thought far ahead and diverged slightly: “Host, it’s fortunate you’re not a child trafficker.”

Mu Yu: “?”

He had temporarily ended the conversation and was playing the “peek-a-boo” game with Little Snowball. The little guy had been woken by the lights again, but he was too tired from playing and hadn't fully woken up yet. He hid inside Mu Yu’s clothes like an ostrich.

Mu Yu sat at the edge of the rink, placing Yàn Sǔn on his lap, one hand covering his eyes.

Yàn Sǔn had never played this game before and blinked his Long lashes blankly. He was afraid of the dark, but not when he was with Mu Yu, and he quite liked this warm darkness.

Mu Yu moved his hand away and made a shadow puppet. Under the bright white light, the clear shadow turned into a small bird flapping its wings, pecking at the shadow of Little Snowball’s fluffy down jacket.

Little Snowball: “!”

Mu Yu covered his eyes again, then moved his hand away, and the shadow turned into a small airplane.

The System persisted for a while, then couldn't help but float over and land on top of the shadow puppet, making the little bell of Doraemon.

The "Run away quickly when you see Mu Yu" maxim left by previous proctoring Systems was finally understood.

This kind of aura, which was gentle to the point of being bland at first glance, made people want to trust him at the second glance, and by the third glance, they directly wanted to follow him… let alone traffick children, it could even easily traffic a little System.

Even though Mu Yu respected the role greatly and didn't correct any of Yu Mu’s stances, frankly admitting that he was using these children to boost his rating, the result was the same.

A group of nascent figure skating geniuses huddled together, chattering amongst themselves, each with "bad person" and "conspiracy" hovering over their heads, occasionally looking up cautiously in their direction.

…In fact, they had already unconsciously moved more than half the ice rink closer. If they weren't careful, they would soon surround the chairs they were sitting on at the rinkside.

“Host,” the System asked its only worry, “Will Yàn Sǔn’s adoptive parents cause trouble?”

The moment the young team member mentioned “D-class,” the System became vigilant. It searched online and indeed found that Yu Mu’s negative news had already been spread.

It was clear that Father Yan and Mother Yan realized that talking was useless. Father Yan’s coaching position was likely unsalvageable. If they could force Mu Yu’s rating to drop, at least the Yan Family’s secrets could be preserved.

The System calculated for a long time with its notebook. If their ratings dropped, they couldn't stay in presidential suites in five-star hotels… and they couldn't take Yàn Sǔn and run away.

Similarly, if Mu Yu improved Yu Mu’s rating, then when they left the variety show, Father Yan would face a similar fate.

There was also Cumberland, who had gone crazy trying to get whitewashing press releases to no avail, and then angrily returned to regain control of Berghead International Bank, lurking outside and waiting to personally skin that family of three.

This was almost a direct confrontation of interests; neither side could hold back anymore.

“Snow Valley belongs to the Host. No matter how Father Yan operates, he can’t drive the Host out,” the System analyzed. “The only way is to target the variety show.”

The System also drew a mind map: “Father Yan is likely planning to stop the Host from coaching these young team members.”

“He might choose kidnapping, poisoning the Host, ambushing the Host, or directly creating an accident in the virtual ice rink.”

The System continued, “I’ve already monitored several phone calls. He has made many preparations. He might directly target the Host, or he might do both – that would be the safest.”

“Your analysis is excellent,” Mu Yu gave it a little red flower. “Well-organized and logical.”

The System: !!! The little red flower is definitely its comfort object too QAQ!!

The System, holding the little red flower with affection, put away its notebook steadily: “Sigh.”

It had been tracking the phone calls and knew that Father Yan planned to disrupt the virtual ice rink’s database and then kidnap the Host amidst the chaos… but it also felt that its analysis must be followed by a “but.”

But there must still be something overlooked, otherwise, the Host wouldn't be here playing with Little Snowball in the shadows.

Little Snowball had decisively learned the game. He covered his own eyes tightly, then opened them with a “Wow,” and swiftly gestured a swift falcon, pecking at the shadow of Mu Yu’s fluffy down jacket.

Little Snowball: “!”

Mu Yu covered his eyes again, then moved his hand away, and the shadow turned into a small airplane.

The System persisted for a while, then couldn’t help but float over and land on top of the shadow puppet, making the little bell of Doraemon.

When he saw the round object representing confirmation, the deputy director, who had rushed over to save him, gasped for breath, looking somewhat surprised and confused: “What is this?”

Mu Yu: “The hotel’s circuit breaker.”

The System: “…”

Father Yan: “………………”

The little guy arched his body and stared fiercely at Father Yan, originally wanting to stomp on his foot, but Mu Yu held him gently in his arms, stroking his head.

His cool little hands were held, and he blankly poked the red box.