Chapter 83

83. Popular Program

“The system has made a new plan,” Lu Ya said, tone as stiff as an HR policy memo. “Given the current situation… we’re short on animals.”

I took a cautious step back. “Wait—don’t tell me they’re planning to replace the employees with animals. That has to be a mistake. Right? Please tell me it’s a mistake. Also—please don’t get angry.”

Even as the words left my mouth, something started feeling off.

“This won’t do,” Lu Ya interrupted, dead serious. “From now on, I must remain in my original form during work hours.”

I blinked. “You… what now?”

My worldview shattered like a cheap mug. I legit felt lightheaded. Was this a fever dream?

Lu Ya studied me for a long second. “You’re not human, are you?”

Huh?

“I am,” I said, close to tears. “You’re the weird one here.”

“I am the last three-legged golden crow in all of heaven and earth.”

Okay. So not only did my accidental coworker claim to be divine, but apparently he was also the final member of some cosmic endangered species list. Meanwhile, I—Duan Jiazhe, broke recent graduate—was the one being judged.

Fantastic.

…

Under Lu Ya’s skeptical, occasionally insulting guidance, I started to piece together what kind of mess I’d been roped into. Apparently, this whole Lingxiao Hope Project thing wasn’t just a shady app—it was a literal celestial program developed by the heavenly court.

Open to all beings in the Three Realms and Six Paths. Equal-opportunity divine assistance. Cool concept… if it weren’t for one small issue.

Humans? Yeah, we’d kind of… dropped off the inter-realm radar. Zero contact. Zero precedent. So, of course, the moment the system accidentally selected me, it had no backup plan.

The app wasn’t even fully intelligent yet—it couldn’t handle online cancellations. If I wanted out, I’d have to submit a form and wait seventy years.

Seventy.

Apparently, if the system had chosen anyone non-human, the bugs would’ve been manageable. But I? I was human. Which meant no way to cancel, no way to quit, and worst of all—no loopholes.

Lu Ya laid it all out, very matter-of-factly: the system made a mistake. I was the bug.

And he wasn’t exactly having a great time either. As one of the “volunteers” dispatched to help me, Lu Ya was stuck under the same rules I was. He couldn’t refuse tasks. Couldn’t upgrade the zoo like a normal employee. And had to pretend to be… well, an animal.

Honestly, I started to feel bad for him. A little.

“This program is way too inhumane,” I said. “Even the volunteers get punished? Doesn’t anyone ever complain? Can’t you just… quit?”

Lu Ya hesitated for half a second before launching into another tirade about the Project.

Which meant… no. No, he couldn’t quit either.

…

We couldn’t loiter outside forever, so I brought Lu Ya over to the Spirit Enclosure.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I muttered, gesturing to an empty cage.

Lu Ya narrowed his eyes. “What is this?”

“Uh… your office?”

Silence.

“You said you had to stay in original form during work hours,” I pointed out. “And all the animals stay in cages. I know the conditions here aren’t ideal, but we’re working on it—”

“You dare,” he snarled, “assign me, the last three-legged golden crow in the universe, to this dump?! With that attitude, how are you running a zoo?!”

=_=

I took a deep breath. “This area is for large animals. You might… not fit the initial plan. You’ll have to go to the birdhouse.”

Lu Ya’s expression said he was this close to punching me. Metaphorically. Probably.

“Just for work hours,” I added quickly. “After that, you can stay in the staff building. We’ll clean the cage again, I promise.”

Next to the broken-down enclosure, our humble little building suddenly looked like five-star accommodations. I could see him calculating.

Eventually, Lu Ya sniffed and said, “Fine. But I want a bigger office. Get the lion out and clean it properly.”

Which—surprisingly—meant he’d accepted the arrangement. I almost cried in relief.

…

Then I hit a new problem.

I didn’t know how to move a lion.

The current setup used sliding iron gates so I could clean section by section. But I had no idea how to transfer a literal lion to another cage.

The lion had been eating well and was in great shape. Which meant it could 100% tear me in half.

I stood outside its cage, paralyzed with indecision.

Lu Ya crossed his arms behind me. “Is this what humans have become? Afraid of lions?”

I pretended not to hear him. He was clearly enjoying this.

The lion roared—loud and full of threat. I nearly fell over.

Lu Ya chuckled.

“Fine!” I snapped, thoroughly humiliated. “If you’re so brave, go do it yourself!”

He shot me a glare more terrifying than the lion’s roar.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t scared anymore. Not really. Because I’d figured it out—Lu Ya couldn’t hurt me. The system had rules, and I was under its protection.

So I sat down beside him, casually hiding my shaking legs. “Go on then. It’s your office. You move the lion.”

“I’m an endangered species,” he sniffed. “You’re the director. Do your job.”

Unbelievable.

Still, he smirked like he’d won, then added, “Relax. With me here, what’s it gonna do?”

Bird’s got an ego the size of the sun.

Whatever he did next, the lion shut up instantly. Tail tucked. Silent as a kitten.

I opened the cage and used a stick to nudge the lion into its new home. It obeyed. Like a scared puppy. It even peed itself. No joke.

Lu Ya stood by with his hands on his hips, barking orders. “Scrub that enclosure. I want it spotless.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I muttered.

“This is your duty,” he declared. “Serve me well.”

I smiled, dead inside. “We don’t say ‘serve’ in the zoo. We say ‘feed.’”

…

Later, Xiao Su stood near the entrance, watching girls melt into puddles as Lu Ya stood there like a celestial ad board in human form, holding balloons.

Seriously, his bone structure had lore. Even the birds adored him. They perched on his shoulders, circled above him, and tugged at skirts to guide girls toward the ticket booth.

Marketing? Nailed.

It was opening day. Banners, balloons, flower baskets. But none of that mattered—he was the attraction.

Nearby girls whispered:

“Did you see him? He’s glowing.”

“Forget the barbecue, let’s go in.”

I swear, we didn’t even need advertising. Lu Ya and the birds were a walking, flying marketing funnel.

One girl, acting as our unofficial greeter, chimed in: “Fifteen bucks today! You get to enter a lottery, too. You might win a bird companion for your tour.”

As if on cue, a bird tugged at her skirt, then flew toward the gate.

Crowd: captivated.

Xiao Su watched with satisfaction. She knew if Lu Ge ever weaponized that pretty face, our conversion rates would double overnight. But he had standards. And our director? Somehow got him to work for peanuts and principles.

Miracles.

…

Meanwhile, the Fan family rolled in.

Fan Haiping, her husband, their kid Zhao Bo, and nephew Zhang Shun had come for a relaxing zoo trip. Haijiao Park was on the itinerary too.

“This place isn’t bad,” she said, clutching a balloon. “Feels like they’re actually investing.”

They tried their luck on the prize draw. Fan Haiping won a “bird companion tour.” She screamed. Loudly.

The staff brought out a yellow sparrow—no leash, no tricks. Just gave it a gentle push and the bird flew onto her shoulder like it’d known her forever.

Everyone gawked. The bird snuggled up to her, wings spread like it was hugging her.

“Auntie,” Zhang Shun whispered, “try running. It’ll follow you.”

This… this was magic.

Even I had to admit: the Lingxiao Hope Project may be unhinged, but damn, it was starting to work.