Scumbag Alpha’s Pheromones Are Toxic - Chapter 28.1

When it came to being infuriating, Ji Yao had never met anyone more skilled than Qin Zishu. In the art of “courting death,” this girl was a natural-born prodigy.

After reading Qin Zishu’s idiotic public announcement, Ji Yao’s vision went dark. She had to take a long moment to steady herself before scrolling down to the comments section. Unsurprisingly, the general public was not buying this supernatural, far-fetched nonsense. Not only were the netizens skeptical, but even Qin Zishu’s own die-hard fans couldn’t take it anymore.

They flooded her mentions, asking: “Sister, what kind of new performance art is this?”

“Speech can be free, but it shouldn’t be psychotic.”

“As expected of the most ‘undeserving’ Best Actress, her brain works differently from normal people.”

“Ji Yao? Has she lost her mind from missing her that much?”

“Ji Yao has been dead for how long now?”

Ji Yao frowned and continued scrolling.

“You guys call her ‘undeserving’ just because she never films intimacy, doesn’t have an on-screen first kiss, and uses doubles even for simple physical pulling? But what if she isn’t being unprofessional? What if she just loves Ji Yao so much she hates touching anyone else?”

“Is that the new fan narrative to clean up her image? Creative.”

“Wait, that actually makes sense.”

“As a neutral passerby, aren’t you haters just obsessed with those points? Her acting is actually great! Her eyes are full of emotion; the immersion is incredible!”

“One look at her and I can feel a suffocating sense of sorrow.”

“Stop defending her. She changes ‘canaries’ constantly. How could she be the devoted type?”

“She is professional. Director Huo, who is notoriously strict, praised her work ethic. She does her own stunts even when it’s dangerous. She clearly just has a personal distaste for physical contact with strangers; it’s not that she isn’t a good actress.”

“Stop arguing. Distaste for contact? Then why does she keep ‘canaries’?”

Ji Yao: “…”

She had nothing to say. In the world of celebrities, maintaining a constant stream of controversy was a talent in itself for staying relevant.

Initially, Ji Yao had intended to investigate the “canary” scandal personally, but seeing as Qin Zishu had come clean of her own accord, Ji Yao decided not to hold a grudge over that specific issue. What made her head ache now was how unconventional Qin Zishu’s methods were.

That evening, as Ji Yao brought the dishes out, she couldn’t help but ask, “There were so many ways to handle the situation. Why choose that one?”

Qin Zishu placed a shrimp in Ji Yao’s bowl. “Because it had the highest cost-performance ratio.”

Ji Yao returned the shrimp to her, rejecting this attempt to play the generous host with food she had cooked herself.

Qin Zishu thinned her lips for a second, then smiled and ate the shrimp. “Anyway, it didn’t break my persona. The public has long since accepted my eccentric way of speaking.”

Based on the comments, I didn’t see much ‘acceptance,’ Ji Yao thought.

“This was the cheapest and easiest way,” Qin Zishu explained while eating. “That paparazzi was asking for six figures. I refused to spoil him like that.”

Given Qin Zishu’s current net worth, six figures wasn’t much. Ji Yao grew curious. “Are you saving money for a specific reason?”

“Yes,” Qin Zishu replied, eating her greens like a rabbit. “I have to build up my savings.”

Savings? Since the day Ji Yao had met her, she had never seen Qin Zishu interested in material wealth. As a child, she didn’t care for money, and even as a superstar, Ji Yao had never heard of her being greedy. So, what was she saving for?

Qin Zishu didn’t have high material desires. Her lifestyle was quite normal. The items in her walk-in closet showed no distinct personal preference; they were likely either gifts from brands or curated by Lou Juan. For someone with that attitude toward life, why the sudden urgency to save?

Ji Yao suspected the girl was just humoring her.

Perhaps sensing Ji Yao’s doubt, Qin Zishu added, “The projects you left unfinished, Sister, I’m going to finish them for you.”

Ji Yao’s charity projects had collapsed shortly after her death. She hadn’t expected Qin Zishu to pick them up again. Her heart felt heavy with a mix of emotions. She knew her death happened because she had lost her utility to her backers; they had discarded her. The projects failed because those behind the scenes had already extracted the benefits they wanted and simply walked away.

She had been a puppet on the stage, but the charity work she did as that puppet had been real. The money and emotion she invested were genuine. If it had been fake, she wouldn’t have boarded that “pirate ship” in the first place.

If anyone asked if she regretted it, Ji Yao would say no. At the very least, because of her presence, not a single child at the Mount Kui Orphanage had died during the disaster. It was because she held great utility at the time that those people fought so hard to save her.

Until she lost her value. Then, they silenced her.

Ji Yao looked at Qin Zishu with a warm smile. “Thank you.”

Qin Zishu grew shy under her gaze. “It’s fine. You can just pay me back by marrying me.”

“Don’t worry about the dowry,” Ji Yao teased. “I’ve saved enough for a marriage portion to support you.”

Qin Zishu laughed. “I’m not expensive to keep.”

That night.

Ji Yao went alone to the room Qin Zishu had mentioned. As she pushed the door open, she was hit by a cloud of dust. The room was devoid of furniture or clutter—just white walls. Near the window stood an old-fashioned computer. The monitor was one of those massive, bulky desktops from over a decade ago; it looked like a relic.

As Ji Yao approached to look for the CPU tower, the screen suddenly flickered with static. Usually, this was how a horror story began, but Ji Yao was fearless. She stood quietly before the computer, watching as the “snow” on the screen slowly coalesced into words.

The bold text formed sentences:

Hello. I am your System. Due to program corruption by a virus, activation has failed. Please reload.

Ji Yao believed it. Her own System was far too unreliable—its mind was filled with romance and drama every second of the day. As a proper System, shouldn’t it have a strong sense of career and logic?

“How do I reload?” Ji Yao asked.

[System: Kill yourself and enter the next loop?]

“What kind of nonsense is that?”

Though it wasn’t the time for reminiscence, Ji Yao suddenly remembered the night she had argued with Qin Zishu. Logically, someone as resilient as Qin Zishu wouldn’t seek a “short end” over a minor disagreement. But as the System had said, that was simply a way to restart the loop.

This room held Qin Zishu’s secrets, which meant the brat had known all of this from the very beginning.

“I already have a System in my head,” Ji Yao said to the monitor. “Why don’t you two have a fight? I’ll follow whoever wins.”

Ji Yao woke the one in her mind. That one replied:

[System: Hold on, let me put some clothes on.]

Ji Yao: “…”

Three minutes later, Qin Zishu appeared at the door in a nightgown. She looked half-asleep, rubbing her eyes. “Sister, you finally came to see this place.”

“What’s going on here?” Ji Yao looked at the decrepit computer. “Just tell me the truth yourself.”

Qin Zishu was startled, her sleepiness vanishing instantly. “Sister, after hearing what that thing said, you’re actually willing to trust me?”

Based on Ji Yao’s behavior in previous loops, they had never been able to communicate effectively. In those timelines, Ji Yao was always cold and decisive, pushing her away—sometimes even striking out at her when pushed too far. After twenty-four loops, Qin Zishu had slowly grown despondent.

Ji Yao replied naturally, “Of course I trust you. Why would I trust a broken computer?”

The System trapped in the computer: “…”

After a silence, the screen displayed:

[After 24 minor loops, the Host will face a Major Loop.]

Before Ji Yao could be shocked, Qin Zishu showed surprise first. “There’s a Major Loop?”

The System explained: The first Major Loop was Ji Yao and Qin Zishu’s first meeting. Then, Ji Yao was murdered in the Major Loop. Her death dragged Qin Zishu into the minor loops. Only after twenty-four minor loops did she reappear in the Major Loop.

Qin Zishu’s face turned pale. “Then the ‘her’ in the minor loops, who was that?”

[System: Do you remember the idol you pushed over?]

The benevolent, Guanyin-faced statue with a pure white exterior, but a sinister, mocking interior. It was a fake deity.

The exterior of the god symbolized kindness and a secular heart to save the world. The interior was a hypocritical, greedy “Evil God” wearing a mask of mercy while committing heartless acts. Through centuries of worship, the “Kindness” on the outside had slowly begun to merge with the “Evil” inside. But that process was abruptly interrupted. The two entered a cycle of loops to continue the fusion. After three Major Loops—seventy-two minor loops—the Evil would occupy the divine throne and devour centuries of merit.

The Evil probably never expected the one who pushed her to the ground would follow her into the loops. And after “growing wrong,” that person became obsessed with Ji Yao, pestering her through twenty-four rounds until the real person finally returned.

Qin Zishu finally understood why Ji Yao refused to accept her in the previous loops: because that wasn’t the Ji Yao she knew.

Ji Yao recalled the letter from Sun Lin. The “her” in those previous loops likely wasn’t a good person; she probably used people for her own ends, which explains the deep-seated resentment.

Qin Zishu confessed that in the minor loops, she had managed to pull Lou Juan into her camp, dragging her through the cycles as well. “Sister, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked innocently. “I did it with good intentions.”

Why are you asking me? Ji Yao thought. I wasn’t the one who was dragged into it.

Once Ji Yao understood the situation, she asked the System, “How do we break the loop?”

The System replied dutifully:

[Reload the System. Enter the next Major Loop. The next respawn point is the night before the idol was pushed over. At that time, you must put the exterior of the idol back together.]

Ji Yao asked, “Put it back together?”

“And what about the ‘Evil Thing’ inside?” Qin Zishu added.

[System: Continue to accept offerings and incense. Wait for the fusion.]

Eventually, the process would yield a deity that was neither purely good nor purely evil, but a mixture of both.

Ji Yao gave a small smile but said nothing. She shared a meaningful look with Qin Zishu, and the two of them collectively slammed the door on the room, turning their backs on the secret.

The System trapped in the old computer: “…”

After they returned, they tacitly agreed never to mention the matter again.

Having endured twenty-four cycles of grief, Qin Zishu was finally being healed by this version of Ji Yao. When she heard that the person in the previous loops wasn’t the “real” Ji Yao, she felt an indescribable sense of relief. It meant that Ji Yao had never actually loathed or abandoned her.

The woman was still the same deity who had rescued her from the abyss all those years ago; the goddess had simply slept through twenty-four reincarnations, waiting for Qin Zishu to find her.

Shortly after Qin Zishu publicly announced her relationship with Ji Yao, voices supporting her began to emerge online.

It started with an obscure starlet who retweeted Qin Zishu’s statement. She explained that she, too, had been involved in a “scandal” with Qin Zishu. The truth was that she was being harassed by a wealthy heir who used his Alpha pheromones to suppress and bully her. Qin Zishu had stepped in to help.

Because everyone in the industry believed Qin Zishu’s pheromones were “toxic,” once she claimed the girl as her “canary,” no one dared to harass her again. Eventually, the heir’s family fell from grace, and the girl regained her freedom.

She wanted to use this opportunity to clear up the old rumors.

Initially, the comments section was brutal, calling her a paid shill or a bot hired to “clean” Qin Zishu’s image.

Then, a second “canary” stood up. Then a third.

They were all “pure” young actresses without backgrounds in the industry, each having stayed by Qin Zishu’s side for less than a month before leaving. Their reasons for needing protection were varied and bizarre.

One girl’s family had tried to force her to marry an old, wealthy widower because of high pheromone compatibility; Qin Zishu helped her pretend she had been “desensitized” to pheromones. Another used the scandal to ward off unwanted suitors, and one even confessed she simply “didn’t want to carry on the family line” and wanted a reason to enjoy her freedom.

When Ji Yao saw the news, she immediately went to find Qin Zishu.

“Your reputation is cleared, but I doubt you’ll be able to work in this industry much longer,” Ji Yao said helplessly. “This circle is too murky; those who are too pure find it hard to fit in. You’ve offended a lot of powerful people.”

“I didn’t ask them to speak up,” Qin Zishu said.

“But they definitely asked you first, and you gave them your consent.”

Qin Zishu remained silent for a moment, which was as good as a confession. When those she had helped asked if they could expose the truth, she had agreed. Firstly, because those women were now strong enough to protect themselves, and secondly, because she had no intention of staying in show business anyway.

“I still hate the cameras,” she said. “I don’t like being a star. There’s no freedom.”

No one knew how much Qin Zishu craved freedom better than Ji Yao. As the girl had once said, for the sake of freedom, she was willing to give up every worldly possession.

“When I was little, I wanted to be a wanderer,” Qin Zishu said wistfully. “I wanted to carry a tattered bag and roam the world. When I was happy, I’d recite some doggerel or hum an out-of-tune tune. When I was sad, I’d just sleep under a bridge or on a park bench. Before I met you, I didn’t need a home or a family. My only dream was to be a free spirit.

But after I met you, after surviving that life-and-death ordeal together, how could I ever let you go? I threw away all those childish dreams. I wanted to go home with you. From then on, you were my only family.”

Ji Yao sat quietly, listening to her.

Qin Zishu continued to herself, “Who knew the heavens would still make things difficult? It took you away. After you left, I sat on mountains of money with absolutely no desire to live. That was when I entered the first minor loop.”

Ji Yao felt a pang in her heart, like the soft prick of a kitten’s claw—a mixture of bitterness and tenderness. She had assumed Qin Zishu would grow up smoothly; she never imagined that the moment the girl lost her, she would lose her will to live.

“My greatest fear back then was that you’d do something foolish,” Ji Yao said. “In the end, you still took the path I feared.”

Qin Zishu looked unbothered. “A person has to live for something. Most people are tethered by their relatives; even without hope, they stay for someone else. I’m different. I was all alone. Even if I vanished, no one would have shed a tear for me.”

Ji Yao took her hand. “Don’t you have me?”

Qin Zishu immediately turned the sentiment into a threat. “That’s why you must live as long as the heavens, Sister. Even if you grow old, you have to stay behind me. If you leave first, I’m following you the very next second.”

Ji Yao: “…” This brat.

Not long after, Qin Zishu officially announced her retirement from the entertainment industry.