NOVPUBMany people believe that gifted children begin forming memories earlier than normal children.
As an adult, Gu Zhao never bothered to verify whether this claim was true or false, but his own first memories did indeed emerge much earlier than most.
The earliest scene etched in his mind was that of an elderly man with graying hair scrutinizing him. Though the toddler couldn’t understand adult language, he could sense the icy disdain beneath that gaze.
Instinctively, he whimpered, tiny hands flailing, hoping for comfort.
Instead, the old man’s expression twisted further with disgust. Without uttering a single word, he turned and walked away.
Left alone in his cradle, the infant—still stretching out his delicate arms, still yearning for a response—was denied food for the entire day.
This was Gu Zhao’s very first memory.
It wasn’t until he turned three that he gradually realized the adults around him didn’t just believe gifted children remembered things earlier—they also believed children with high IQs wouldn’t cry over trivial matters.
The family didn’t just want a genius; they wanted a leader, someone who could pull their declining lineage back to glory.
So the little boy was never allowed to cry. Not when he was forced to study subjects even adults struggled with, not when every minute of his day was scheduled like a machine’s, and certainly not when he was locked in the "disciplinary room"—a silent, pitch-black abyss.
Before Gu Zhao even learned to speak, his caretakers "taught" him not to cry by withholding food whenever he shed tears.
At first, the child couldn’t possibly understand. Back then, little Gu Zhao—still named Ryan—wasn’t even walking yet. He wasn’t born knowing everything; he wasn’t born a cold, unfeeling machine. He didn’t understand why the adults treated him this way.
He cried desperately, waving his tiny hands, seeking help and comfort in his hunger. In those moments, more than food, he craved a response—any response.
Even just a gentle pat on the head would have sufficed.
But he received nothing.
And so, little Gu Zhao became exactly what his caretakers wanted: composed, restrained, mature beyond his years.
He never weakly sought help from others—not even from his parents.
Yet after finishing a day’s worth of lessons, lying in bed at night, whether his eyes were open or closed, he felt an immense void inside.
Empty. As if he were slowly falling through an endless abyss.
No bottom in sight, no light above. Just the ceaseless sensation of descent.
Corporal punishment was routine for young Ryan—not because he failed, but because he didn’t exceed expectations.
One such punishment came after his parents hadn’t visited him in a long time. Having completed all his tasks, little Ryan ventured through the sprawling garden—a difficult trek for someone so small. He stumbled repeatedly, leaving scratches on his face and stinging scrapes on his palms and knees.
But he didn’t retreat. Despite never having been to his parents’ quarters, he found his way there.
Breathless, the child knew this would earn him another round of punishment from his "tutors." Yet in that moment, he wasn’t afraid. Instead, an inexplicable anticipation welled up inside him—directed at his parents.
With that hope glimmering in his eyes, he looked up at his father and mother. His nose tingled.
He was crying.
Then, he heard his father click his tongue, the familiar disgust dripping from his voice:
"How did he get out?"
"Don’t let them think we put him up to this. They’ll dock our pay again."
His mother was already on the phone: "Come get him immediately. He’s filthy. And crying. Ryan, stop crying."
The light in little Ryan’s eyes dimmed.
He was dragged back. The tutors were furious. This time, the punishment drew blood before they threw him into the disciplinary room. "Two days this time," they said.
And of course: "Ryan, don’t cry."
The room was specially designed—windows sealed tight, only the door’s slit allowing slivers of light and air. Even that was partially blocked, ensuring perpetual darkness.
Little Ryan sat motionless, reciting lessons in his head. This was his way of self-soothing; filling his mind kept the fear at bay.
Then, amid the silence, he heard rustling outside—too light to be an adult.
He called out, and to his surprise, received an answer.
A child’s voice replied, saying he’d come to visit secretly—and that he’d brought a gift.
That was how little Ryan received the first present of his life: a wild blade of grass.
He held it delicately, barely registering the novelty of joy before his mind raced with plans to hide it from the adults.
He succeeded. He planted the grass beneath the classroom window, camouflaging it among weeds.
He learned the visitor was another child from the family—Lane, his cousin.
Like his parents, Lane was bound to him by blood. But unlike them, Lane visited. Lane gave him gifts.
Opportunities to see Lane were rare. The adults discouraged interaction, fearing camaraderie would breed rebellion.
Yet every time they crossed paths, little Ryan stole glances, longing to say: I kept your gift safe.
The grass thrived under the window for nearly a year.
He remembered the day clearly. After finishing his lessons, he peeked outside, checking on his little plant.
Beside it bloomed a lovely flower. The grass basked in sunlight, content.
Then—a polished shoe crushed both.
Petals scattered. The blade of grass snapped instantly.
Even as an adult, Gu Zhao’s memory of this moment remained hazy.
Only his father’s cold voice lingered:
"Daydreaming in class? What’s so interesting about weeds?"
"Look at your face. What did your tutors teach you? Don’t cry. Only cowards cry."
Within an hour, someone uprooted every plant in that patch, leaving barren soil.
By the next day, concrete had paved over the earth where the grass once grew.
The next time he saw Lane, before he could speak, his cousin lifted his chin, blue eyes burning with defiance:
"Next exam, I’ll beat you."
As they grew older, their family was no longer satisfied with individual education and instead began fostering competition between the two, for there could only be one heir to the family. Naturally, the loser of each competition would face punishment.
Young Lane was fiercely competitive, determined to come first in everything. After hurling a bold declaration, he would turn and run, his mind wholly occupied with how to secure the next victory—completely oblivious to little Ryan’s outstretched hand behind him.
That day, Ryan zoned out longer than usual.
He truly stopped crying after that.
What followed was an obsessive pursuit of learning.
He no longer sought to fill the void in his heart; he only wanted to grow up faster.
And Ryan succeeded.
As an adult, he broke free from the family, even changing his name. Naturally, the family was furious, but he couldn’t care less.
His grandfather, livid, roared at him:
"Leave the family, and you’ll lose everything you have."
The young man, barely an adult yet devoid of any childish softness in his features, met the outburst with a calm, indifferent gaze, his light-colored eyes as still as stagnant water.
"I’ve never possessed anything. What is there for you to take?"
With those words, he pushed the door open and walked out—only to meet Lane’s conflicted stare head-on. But this time, Gu Zhao didn’t pause as he had in childhood.
Life outside the family wasn’t destitute for Gu Zhao, but the scars left by his upbringing lingered—particularly in his career ambitions.
He was single-mindedly determined to build a world-class company, much like the NPCs in games, each with their own programmed goals.
Gu Zhao analyzed, learned, and assimilated relentlessly. Aside from eating, sleeping, and exercising, every waking moment was devoted to work and study.
Admiration for the strong is human nature—but when that strength doesn’t shelter anyone, when the person makes no effort to hide their indifference, and when their words are bitingly cold, the dynamic shifts.
Gu Zhao was inept at handling relationships, but his analytical skills were sharp. And initially, he didn’t bother concealing what he uncovered.
From his first days at school after leaving the family, people would approach him, drawn by his striking looks and eager to befriend him—only to flee just as quickly once Gu Zhao dissected their hidden malice.
"Gu Zhao, the way you look at me… it’s like you’re analyzing me without an ounce of emotion."
"You’re just lost in your own world, making assumptions about everyone. They’re right—you’re a freak."
"I regret ever trying to be friends with you."
Some said he was like a machine that never malfunctioned or lagged.
Others called him an emotionless monster who’d stop at nothing for gain.
And there were those who admitted he terrified them.
Gu Zhao reflected on this. Eventually, he decided to shut off his analytical instincts.
He stopped scrutinizing people.
And so, Chen Xuanzheng and He Qi entered his world, declaring, "Gu Zhao, we’re your friends."
They said, "Gu Zhao, let’s do this together. Let’s start a business."
Gu Zhao remained expressionless. After a few seconds of silent consideration, he replied, "Okay."
Just as, later, when these same two men—after he dealt a crippling blow to their company and walked away—hissed in furious, hushed voices:
"It was just some gossip behind your back. It’s not like we were the only ones calling you a freak. That icy demeanor of yours is off-putting, you know?"
"If you’re going to betray the company we built together over something this petty, then fine! Prove me right—you really are a heartless monster. Go on, ruin Wansheng if you can!"
Back then, too, Gu Zhao had replied with the same eerie calm: "Okay."
And true to his word, he demonstrated that he could both create Wansheng and dismantle it with his own hands.
Naturally, this only cemented his reputation as cold-blooded.
Cold-blooded? Perhaps.
Gu Zhao didn’t reject the labels people gave him—heartless, selfish, monster.
After all, he’d never received any other kind of evaluation.
After reassessing, he decided he’d resume analyzing potential partners in the future. Wasting years on the wrong people wasn’t efficient.
But this only made others recoil further, branding him "a lunatic who’d stab his own company in the back without batting an eye."
He couldn’t quite articulate what his emotional fluctuations were like. He only felt a numb awareness that the hollowness inside him seemed to be widening.
Gu Zhao recognized, with stark clarity, that he was still falling. Even free from the family’s shackles, the descent continued.
How could he stop it?
He prepared himself for the possibility that he might never find the answer.
Like a butterfly with no path forward, no light to guide it, he could only fly straight ahead through the darkness.
Gu Zhao didn’t realize how battered he already was.
Even as an adult, he followed the rules ingrained in him since childhood: hit a wall? Break through it. Get stabbed? Strike back. And when everyone assumed he was unscathed, the half-dead butterfly would flap its wings—tattered, scales missing—and keep flying.
No matter how exhausted, he refused to rest, as if pausing even for a moment would invite a swarm of beasts to tear him apart.
Determined not to stop, Gu Zhao swiftly sought his next business partner. He needed someone with deep pockets and formidable strength. This time, he’d learn from his mistakes—he wouldn’t trust anyone.
It was then that Wang Zhengzheng, known in their circles as a shrewd old fox, suddenly reached out, offering to introduce him to someone.
And there, Gu Zhao met Sheng Quan for the first time.
Before the meeting, he reminded himself: keep analyzing this time. Spot the red flags early.
Sheng Quan was surprisingly easy to read.
She was young—far younger than any industry leader he’d encountered.
She smiled often, though he couldn’t tell if it was genuine.
She had an eye for beauty, and whenever her gaze lingered on him, he sensed pure appreciation and liking.
She cherished leisure. To her, even doing nothing—just lounging on a beanbag, watching the city’s bustle below—was a form of bliss.
She meddled in her subordinates’ health, going so far as to forcibly order him to rest when he was sick (despite being his boss).
She ate the meals he prepared, then promptly opened a small cafeteria in the office.
She adored gossip, her face alight with barely contained excitement whenever she unearthed some "scandalous scoop" to share.
She had a weakness for beautiful people and well-toned figures—combine the two, and her favor would naturally rise.
She seemed to operate on her own set of criteria. Once someone passed her assessment, she’d extend trust without hesitation.
She trusted Yu Xiangwan.
She trusted Yan Hui.
She trusted Yuan Zixin.
She even trusted Jin Jiu—a complete stranger upon first meeting.
And Gu Zhao?
He waited, silent and watchful.
He made no pretense, laying his true self bare before Sheng Quan, silently waiting for her to judge him and, in turn, place her trust in him.
But that trust never came.
Why?
He ate well, rested on time, exercised, and took care of his appearance. By conventional standards, his looks surpassed Yu Xiangwan’s—after all, Yu Xiangwan even wore glasses.
Why did others earn her trust so easily, while he was left behind?
Gu Zhao thought this, and so he asked.
Would he be met with rejection?
Gu Zhao wasn’t entirely sure. He simply longed for equal trust, and Sheng Quan had always been the type to respond whenever he spoke.
In the past, he would’ve asked without hesitation, indifferent to the other person’s reaction.
But this time, an inexplicable restlessness churned inside him. After picking up the custom-made diamond-encrusted stamp case, he chose to voice his question.
Without even realizing it, he harbored the thought: If I upset Chairman Sheng, I’ll just pull out this gift to appease her.
Sheng Quan wasn’t angry.
She answered him.
"Gu Zhao, you’re the best partner I’ve ever worked with."
At that moment, Gu Zhao couldn’t describe what he felt. If he had to put it into words, it was like fireworks exploding in his chest, shattering He Qi and Chen Xuanzheng into fragments.
He solemnly presented the stamp case.
Sheng Quan accepted it with delight and even "showed it off" on Weibo—though it was alongside a gift from Yu Xiangwan. But that didn’t matter; Gu Zhao could easily ignore the other photo.
He scrolled through the comments on her post for a long time, reading the flood of admiration and envy.
It was a novel experience.
Like a shallow stream, it flowed gently into the hollow spaces of his heart, quietly occupying a small corner before he even noticed.
Then, little by little, it expanded.
Until one day, Gu Zhao shut off his "analytical" ability again.
It happened at a routine business gathering, where he ran into an old classmate. The man, now more weathered by life, hadn’t fared well.
With a single glance, Gu Zhao knew he was angling for a connection to Xing Mang.
But then, his classmate offered a surprisingly sincere apology.
"I’m sorry, Gu Zhao. You were right back then—I was jealous of my sister. But negative emotions are normal. Jealousy is normal. People just hide those ugly feelings, sometimes even from themselves."
"Who wants to face their darkest self? And who wants to be friends with someone who can see that darkness? Back then, I couldn’t admit I was so twisted I’d envy my own sister. So I slandered you. I avoided you. Because your insight terrified me."
That night, Gu Zhao had a nightmare for the first time in years.
In the pitch-black detention room, a small child sat motionless, staring at the sliver of light under the door.
When he woke, Gu Zhao decided never to analyze Sheng Quan again. 𝓷ℴ𝓿𝓹𝓾𝒷.𝓬𝓸𝓂
For the first time, he felt fear—crystal clear and undeniable.
He was afraid Sheng Quan would distance herself if she realized how well he understood her.
Even if his analysis suggested the odds were infinitesimally low.
Gu Zhao had always been a gambler. But this time, he didn’t dare take the bet. Even with a 99.999% chance of winning, the remaining 0.001% terrified him.
Yet even without analyzing her, he kept learning more about Sheng Quan.
Because she never hid her emotions.
After sipping boba tea, she’d sigh contentedly. "I know it’s packed with sugar, but I love it. Just like how you know work fries your brain, but you still enjoy it."
On rainy days, she’d sometimes wander into his office, scowling at the downpour outside. "Ugh, I hate rain. Hey, Gu Zhao, I get the feeling you don’t like it either?"
When Jiang Lu practiced martial arts, she’d watch with stars in her eyes, clapping wildly afterward. "Combat drills are the coolest, right, Gu Zhao?"
She’d grin and drag him along. "Gu Zhao, let’s go on vacation. No arguments—I’m the boss. You’re not some steel-forged work machine. Two days off won’t kill you."
At a fashion show, she’d grouse without shame. "Ugh, those legs! I’m so jealous. Look, Gu Zhao, that guy’s legs are even longer than yours."
If a company artist got mistreated, she’d slam the table. "Our people are there to work, not to be bullied. Gu Zhao, we are settling this."
She’d spin grand visions. "This, this, and this—one day, all of it will belong to Xing Mang. Even the rain will be ours!"
She bought a gold-ingot-shaped pot for the plant he’d given her, declaring triumphantly, "This little guy’s name is Fortune. Simple and clear. From now on, it’s our company mascot."
After his year-end speech, she’d nudge him with a smirk. "You’ve got a real talent for rallying the troops. Congrats—you’re doing next year’s speech too."
She’d immediately notice his new watch or suit, enthusing, "Gu Zhao, your taste is impeccable. If you ever quit as CEO, you’d make a killer designer."
She gifted him a giant elephant ear plant, dead serious. "This thing’s expensive. Take good care of it. If the company ever hits a crisis, we’re tossing it out first as a sacrifice."
Before he knew it, the hollowness in his heart had filled completely.
He often didn’t understand his own emotions.
So expressing them in action was even harder.
Yet instinct drove him to stay close to Sheng Quan—closer, always closer.
At the Honeycomb concert, beneath a sky full of artificial stars, Chairman Sheng approached in a red gown, smiling.
"We did it. We’re world-class now."
In that moment, Gu Zhao’s heart hosted the grandest fireworks show imaginable.
A sudden realization struck him: he wanted to give Sheng Quan everything the world had to offer.
Including himself.
It felt like being drunk on the most vivid dream. So much so that after swiftly wrapping up pending tasks, he hired someone to teach him how to make jianbing in his office.
When Lane dropped by, he found Gu Zhao in the inner office—suit immaculate, hair perfectly styled, face the picture of icy elegance—solemnly practicing flipping crepes. The golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty had only one remark:
"Oh, my dear brother, have you finally lost it?"
Gu Zhao deftly finished a crepe, carefully placing it into a paper bag with gloved hands, his expression grave.
"To be precise, I’ve come to a realization."
Lane shrugged. "Well, if you were to tell me, like before, that you’re practicing making jianbing guozi to please Director Sheng just because she’s your boss and her needs come first, then I think I could give you a lesson titled 'A Mere Subordinate Would Never Do This.'"
Gu Zhao suddenly said, "I saw my parents yesterday."
The carefree, teasing smile on Lane’s face froze.
But Gu Zhao remained as calm as ever, his hands never stopping as he continued practicing flipping jianbing guozi. "They’re still the same as before."
Lane tried to laugh, but in the end, he couldn’t. "Why did you even go see them? Weren’t you afraid it’d just upset you?"
Gu Zhao replied, "It’s a tradition at Xingmang."
Lane thought, What kind of ridiculous tradition is this?
He asked, "So you saw them. And then?"
Gu Zhao said, "There is no 'and then.' Just seeing them was enough."
He took off his gloves and walked over to Lane, glancing at the two small potted plants sitting quietly on the table. "When you gave me that plant, it was the time I wanted to see them the most."
Lane fell silent.
He opened his mouth. "Ryan, actually, that plant back then, I—"
His words cut off abruptly.
Because he was pulled into a hug that smelled like jianbing guozi.
Gu Zhao was embracing him.
Just like the kind of hug they had both longed for as children.
Lane wanted to laugh, but as he tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes involuntarily reddened. His first instinct was to blink away the tears, force a smile, and pretend everything was as bright and cheerful as ever.
"You knew, didn’t you?"
"Lane, no matter why you gave it to me, it’s been with me for a long time."
Gu Zhao’s voice, always cool and magnetic, carried no softness in its tone, but his words were far from unkind. "We’ve grown up now."
"You can cry."
In an instant, Lane, who had been trying to act unaffected, felt tears roll down his cheeks.
He buried his face in his cousin’s shoulder and cried silently, unrestrained, for what felt like an eternity.
Some time later, inside the room, Gu Zhao stated matter-of-factly, "Your eyes are swollen."
Lane replied, "Yeah. I’ll hide here for a while until the swelling goes down. I don’t want people thinking you yelled at me until I cried."
Gu Zhao asked, "Will you be bored alone?"
Lane frowned. "Alone? Are you going out?"
Gu Zhao nodded. "Yes. So if you get bored, you can help me with some company paperwork. There’s been a lot of physical documents to process lately, but don’t worry—I’ve already sorted them. You have clearance for these, and for this stack, I gave you access last night. For that one, you just need to handle the front part, and I’ll sign off when I get back."
Lane, his eyes puffy and swollen: "..."
"You—"
Gu Zhao added, "If you get hungry, you can eat these jianbing guozi."
"I—"
Gu Zhao said, "Goodbye."
With that, President Gu pushed the door open and left, leaving behind a stunned Lane staring blankly at three stacks of documents.
A few seconds later, it suddenly hit him.
Wait a minute.
Gu Zhao was usually all about work—what was he going out for?
---
One day later.
Director Sheng Quan, who had been leisurely enjoying her time on Kara Island, stared in surprise at the man setting up a stall to sell jianbing guozi in front of her.
"You’re confessing to me?"
She felt a mix of Is the world turning upside down? and Actually, this kind of makes sense, but upon closer thought, she also wondered if she was still dreaming.
Gu Zhao held out a jianbing guozi toward Sheng Quan, his expression as composed as ever, giving no hint of the internal panic he was feeling.
He lifted his gaze, his light-colored eyes filled with unwavering determination.
"I like you. I want to pursue you."
Sheng Quan thought, Oh, he’s so handsome. His eyelashes are so long. That nervous look makes me want to poke his face.
Gu Zhao, holding the jianbing guozi in one hand, began pushing forward a stack of documents with the other.
"You might be concerned about office romances."
Sheng Quan, who wasn’t really that concerned: "..."
Gu Zhao launched into his prepared speech.
"This is the equity transfer agreement."
"This is the non-equity agreement."
"This is the personal asset gift contract."
"Xingmang won’t be affected in any way."
Sheng Quan: "..."
Ah, the familiar vibe.
Back when they first met, Gu Zhao had been exactly like this—mechanical, precise. Over time, Xingmang had rubbed off on him, smoothing out his edges, but whenever he was nervous, he’d revert to this robotic tone.
Seeing him like this actually made Sheng Quan feel less disoriented. Amused and exasperated, she watched as Gu Zhao continued listing reasons—I work out, I have abs, I take care of my appearance—until she suddenly reached out and took the jianbing guozi from his hand.
Gu Zhao froze, his breath catching as he stared at Sheng Quan. His usually aloof, beautiful face was now tense with anticipation.
Sheng Quan said, "You know I don’t plan on getting married, right?"
Gu Zhao stood firm. "I know."
Sheng Quan added, "I might not ever have children, either."
Gu Zhao nodded. "I understand."
Sheng Quan continued, "The future is uncertain. Even I don’t know if I’ll stay with someone for a lifetime. So even if I say yes now, we might break up someday for some reason. Can you accept that?"
Gu Zhao’s eyes reddened almost instantly.
His mind was stuck on six words: "I say yes now."
"You’re saying yes?"
Sheng Quan laughed.
For a second, she was stunned—then, instinctively, she pulled him into a hug.
Gu Zhao was taller than her, but now he bent his head, leaning into her embrace like a lost traveler finally finding shelter. His deep voice turned hoarse, tinged with emotion.
Yet even now, Gu Zhao restrained himself.
Straightening slightly, his reddened eyes, flushed nose, and damp lashes still carried an air of restraint and propriety.
He looked at her like a drenched stray dog finally finding its way home on a rainy night and asked softly, "Can I cry?"
Sheng Quan gave him another gentle hug.
"Yes. Of course you can cry."
And so, Gu Zhao smiled even as tears fell.
"Thank you."
Thank you.
For appearing in my life.
[Gu Zhao Side Story - End]
