The real young master thought he was hated by everyone

“I won’t go to the office until tomorrow afternoon,” Xie Duzhi attempted to sound more considerate.

His gaze eventually landed on the floor, rather than on Li Heng’s face.

This action significantly reduced the sense of pressure around him—though he was unaware of this, Li Heng did feel a subtle sense of relief when Xie Duzhi wasn’t staring at him with that calm, serious look.

“If you haven’t made up your mind yet, you can decide tomorrow.”

After a brief pause, he added, “Mom will be home too.”

If you’re unsure, you could also seek advice from her.

If you’re not interested in that particular school, we can choose another.

Top universities abroad can generally admit someone as an “honorary alumnus.”

Li Heng held the glass cup in his hands, drank the milk in one go, took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly, finally feeling somewhat calmer.

He hadn’t expected Xie Duzhi to come over, not to ask him a bunch of questions, but rather to directly hand him an answer and ask if he wanted to copy it.

The name of the university that Xie Duzhi mentioned—he had only seen it in a magazine one of his classmates had subscribed to.

The buildings printed on the pages were grand and majestic, brimming with a palpable sense of history. The introduction said that its global ranking was significantly higher than both Q and B universities, and its academic atmosphere was described in glowing terms.

Students from small towns were well aware of their own limitations. The magazine had made its rounds in the class, but in the end, it only became a topic for casual conversation after school.

After all, it was too far removed from their reality.

By comparison, the slight obsession everyone had with Q and B universities didn’t seem like such a big deal.

With that thought, he took another deep breath and decided to go over Xie Duzhi’s words from the beginning.

“But… haven’t I already turned sixteen and now earn a living through my own labor?”

He wasn’t sure if this was the main point he should focus on.

“It was like that before,” Xie Duzhi clarified. “But now you don’t rely on your own income to live, and you have both parents and other guardians.”

After speaking, Xie Duzhi briefly pursed his lips, belatedly remembering that he had been legally independent for quite some time now.

As an older brother, it seemed his position was somewhat tenuous.

…Maybe he should think of a way to bring him back into the family registry?

Li Heng had completely followed Xie Duzhi’s logic, not noticing anything out of place.

Right, he had already been recognized as a member of the Xie family.

He nodded, unconsciously sitting up straighter, and asked hesitantly:

“So, the contract… is nullified?”

He still couldn’t fully process the situation, and a “but” almost slipped out of his mouth.

But what followed wasn’t something Xie Duzhi needed to know.

Xie Duzhi was kind to him and was considering things like his education because he called him “brother.”

But the orphanage director wasn’t connected to Xie Duzhi in any way, and he wasn’t obligated to take care of everything.

If the contract was voided, it was voided. He could figure something else out.

But today was already the 22nd.

Thinking about the fact that he only had eight days until his next paycheck, he felt a twinge of regret.

“It’s not void.”

Xie Duzhi said, “As long as you enjoy it.”

However, much of the contract would need to be revised, including salary, gift revenue shares, and streaming hours.

There was also the matter of promotional exposure.

Actually, he didn’t enjoy it that much.

Li Heng thought quietly to himself.

Becoming a professional streamer was more of a survival choice.

With only a high school diploma, career options were limited.

Aside from monotonous, soul-draining factory work, the only other jobs seemed to be in the service industry.

But being a server didn’t come with meals or accommodation, so living expenses would still be a burden.

He had ruled out many options, and the closer the end of summer vacation came, the more anxious he became.

Luckily, just before his part-time job at the internet café ended, he saw a job posting.

They were recruiting full-time streamers, offering meals, accommodation, and a base salary of 7,000 yuan. There were no limits on commission, and they promised that as long as you were willing to work hard and show yourself on camera, earning a million a year wasn’t just a dream.

Thinking that 7,000 yuan was an enormous amount of money, he contacted the manager, exchanged a few words, and sent some photos to the designated email. It didn’t take long to get a reply.

It was a sunny day, not too hot, with a clear sky. A faint cool breeze, carrying the first hint of autumn, blew across his face as he boarded the train that afternoon.

But just when he thought he had given up one path only to open a window of opportunity, he was immediately hit hard by reality.

The company operated day and night, had no contracts, and always delayed salary payments.

The training programs were crude and the streaming content had to follow a rigid script.

From 7 PM to 5 AM, failing to follow the script meant deductions, and not hitting gift quotas also led to deductions.

The only thing that kept him there for three months was the free meals and accommodation, and the 9,000 yuan he finally received.

Signing with the Orange platform and settling down to a more stable way of staying in the city was purely due to his natural gaming talent and the fact that he didn’t mind it too much.

Before becoming a signed streamer, in his tiny rented room, which barely had enough space for a bed and a desk, he had tried many other avenues.

From music to sports commentary to educational videos, he even made a few cooking videos in the shared kitchen.

He tried every idea he could think of.

The reason he created so many guides and story walkthroughs was simply to maintain exposure before his streams started, to attract more attention.

Compared to those who genuinely loved games or the industry, he felt he was doing something somewhat underhanded.

His lips moved slightly as if to speak, but he found it difficult to lie to someone who cared about him.

Although keeping things vague would be easier and would help him keep the contract, he still chose to be honest, albeit reluctantly.

“Actually… I made those videos just to attract viewers,” he admitted, his gaze slightly averted as he found it difficult to express. “When the account gains more followers, more people will check out the streams too.”

If the video quality was high, some people who didn’t watch streams would still support by liking, saving, or tipping, and over time, that also became a source of income.

“It’s something I learned about account management,” he said, glossing over his earlier experiences before becoming a gaming streamer. “…I don’t really like streaming that much.”

“I see, so you like it a little,” Xie Duzhi concluded.

“I’ll have them revise the contract tomorrow and get you a dedicated team.”

His eyes briefly lingered on the nearby computer screen. “You just need to focus on playing games.”

Those things that were glossed over or left unsaid, he was fully aware of them.

A person’s experiences can be easily summarized into neat words on paper, carefully tucked away in a file, and handed to him, every detail accounted for.

But Li Heng sitting before him wasn’t just the flat, weightless ink on paper, labeled as “Livestreams regularly start at 7 PM, sends money to the orphanage director for post-surgery recovery and rehabilitation, living relatively frugally.”

He was alive.

He was his younger brother.

Someone who deserved to be cared for, loved, and worried over.

This was Xie Duzhi’s first time forming a bond with family. He had never been anyone’s big brother before and didn’t know how to play the role properly.

Aside from making the best possible arrangements and solving problems at their root, he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“You don’t need to worry about the time difference,” he reassured him. “I’ll talk to the professors at the school to arrange your class schedule reasonably.”

Li Heng responded with another bout of intense coughing.

“…Wait!”

He thought the contract and team could be discussed later, but more importantly, he needed to stop Xie Duzhi from using special means to get him into a university.

He frantically called out to stop him.

Under Xie Duzhi’s somewhat puzzled gaze, his confidence quickly dwindled, and he mumbled, his momentum gone.

“…Do I really have to go to that university? Can I just…”

“You don’t have to attend a university,” Xie Duzhi misunderstood his point. “But having the experience would make your life story more complete.”

Li Heng, who was just about to ask if he could take the college entrance exams himself: …

“No, it’s just… I did pretty well in school,” he blurted, his face flushing bright red. He subconsciously gestured with his hand. “My homeroom teacher even told me that my school record is still on file.”

Xie Duzhi was aware of Li Heng’s academic excellence.

He had initially planned to enroll him in the senior class at the city’s top high school, with private tutors at home to help with his studies.

But the principal hadn’t agreed.

After a moment of silence, he decided to call again tomorrow.