The Scum Gong Refuses the Crematorium [Quick Transmigration] - Chapter 17

Sheng Yan was never a “good person” to begin with.

Furthermore, villains and protagonists are born antagonists. Sheng Yan had originally thought that since System No. 1 had been replaced, he could take a proper vacation in this world and relax. After all, he couldn’t remember how many eons it had been since he last had a break.

But some people are just repulsive—like flies buzzing in his ear while he’s trying to enjoy himself. They aren’t a threat, but they are incredibly annoying. Since they wouldn’t let him have a peaceful vacation, they couldn’t blame him for getting back to business early.

The day after he returned from checking on Lu Mingyue’s back, Sheng Yan used his authority as a major shareholder of Shengshi to terminate all of Song Liguang’s endorsements and declared that Shengshi would never collaborate with him again.

When the news broke, the entire Shengshi Group was shocked.

Everyone at Shengshi knew that Song Liguang’s dealings with the company were deep. Rumors had even circulated that Song Liguang was romantically involved with President Sheng and might become the “Boss’s Wife” in a few years. To suck up to him, many executives had been at his beck and call, giving him the green light on everything.

Now that the big boss had pulled the plug, those who had previously flattered Song Liguang were dumbfounded. Private WeChat groups were exploding with curses.

They weren’t cursing Sheng Yan; they were cursing Song Liguang. They called him stupid, an idiot, and a failure at social climbing.

Sheng Yan was such a “thick gold leg” to cling to. As a small star with no background, Song Liguang had managed to hug that leg but failed to hold on tight. Now that the boss had kicked him away, not only was his dream of marrying into a wealthy family dead, but he had also caused these executives to “kiss the wrong horse’s ass.” Not only were their shortcuts to promotion gone, but all the work they had done to appease him now had to be redone!

Inside Sheng Yan’s mind, System 667, which had just been released from the “little black room,” saw the news and experienced a code malfunction. Its screen flickered as it issued a warning:

“Host is requested to strictly execute the system mission. Do not deviate from the main plot! If the mission fails, the system will initiate an obliteration strike against the Host!”

667 had grown smarter. It knew the contract Sheng Yan had signed prevented it from using electric shocks within the world, but it believed that once the Host left the world and returned to the system space, it could execute him on the spot.

Sheng Yan adjusted his gloves and gave a gentle smile. “Aren’t you here to kill me anyway, my dear system? Go ahead.”

“I give you permission to obliterate me right now.”

667 sounded like it had heard something impossible. It emitted a series of harsh static noises. Usually emotionless, it now sounded furious: “The Host is asked not to speculate. The system only punishes hosts who are not proactive and clears those who fail. The system harbors no inherent malice toward the Host.”

“Is that so?” Sheng Yan’s voice was airy. “Then I suppose you won’t be lifting a finger against me.”

667: “As long as the Host completes missions on time according to instructions, 667 will not act against the Host.”

“Very good.” Sheng Yan nodded with satisfaction. He waved a hand toward a group of people sitting before him with laptops. As they began tapping rapidly on their keyboards, he whispered, “Then I’ll be the one to move first.”

667, still disoriented from being locked away, scanned the surroundings with its radar. Sensing the tense atmosphere, it shrieked: “What is the Host doing?!”

“Shh.” Sheng Yan gestured for silence. “The hunt has begun.”

667 went into a frenzy, screaming in his head: “Stop this immediately! This behavior is a severe deviation from the main plot! The Host will suffer severe punishment!”

“Stop!”

“Stop!!”

“Stop!!!”

“—Level 5 Electric Shock!”

[Command failed.]

“—Level 8 Electric Shock!”

[Command failed.]

“—Level 10 Electric Shock!”

[Command failed.]

“…Initiating System Semi-Destruction Protocol!”

[Command…]

[Host successfully exchanged ‘Confinement’ function. Previous command automatically canceled. Executing Confinement. 500 points deducted.]

667: !…………&&（）&……％￥％％￥&&&!!!

Every system has a self-destruct protocol. When things spiral out of control, they can blow up the Host; as code, they can simply swap chips and survive. A semi-destruction would have stripped Sheng Yan of his “skin” even if it didn’t kill him. But unfortunately for the system, it failed.

Sheng Yan ignored 667 and let his team continue.

Simultaneously, the internet was flooded with reports of the fallout between Song Liguang and Shengshi. Everyone knew Shengshi had hand-built Song Liguang’s career. From the massive funds spent on his debut to the countless endorsements, he was practically synonymous with the brand.

Fans and gossip-mongers had been waiting for an official dating announcement. A famous forum even had a “CP” (Couple) thread with over a hundred million views. When the news hit, the “CP fans” felt like they’d been struck by lightning. They swarmed Song Liguang’s social media, demanding to know what happened.

Shengshi’s official statement was brutal: “Due to Mr. Song Liguang’s repeated passivity, negligence, and perfunctory attitude during collaborations, and his failure to improve despite repeated warnings, our company has reached the limit of its patience. We are canceling all cooperation and will not hire him in the future.”

Initially, fans tried to defend him, saying he was the most professional star. But then, netizens dug up multiple videos of Song Liguang making mistakes while filming for Shengshi—repeated mistakes that showed he wasn’t trying to learn, but rather seemed to be intentionally making things difficult for the company.

The fans went silent. Shengshi had treated him like a pampered child, throwing money at his projects and giving him top-tier stages. Even if he had a grievance, he shouldn’t bite the hand that fed him.

“What happened?! What happened?!”

Song Liguang, who was on set when the producer shoved the phone in his face, was losing his mind. He kicked a chair, dropping his “gentle and sweet” persona entirely. “I want to f***ing know what happened too!”

This was supposed to be the finale! After a series of “Slap-in-the-face” plots where Sheng Yan kneeled, begged, and got jealous, Song Liguang was supposed to “finally be moved” and announce their relationship at an awards ceremony. The fans were supposed to celebrate his victory.

Not this. Not being questioned like a criminal. Are you ungrateful? I never thought you were this kind of person.

The feeling of the script slipping from his fingers made Song Liguang snap. He felt like a clown. He didn’t feel like a “Child of Destiny” with a system and protagonist halo at all.

The producer, seeing this side of him for the first time, frowned. “Regardless, handle this quickly. It’s for your own good and the good of the show.”

From the producer’s perspective, this was a fixable misunderstanding. If Song Liguang just bowed his head and apologized to his old boss, the boss might be annoyed but wouldn’t destroy him. But if he refused to back down, he’d have no capital left to make a comeback.

Song Liguang, however, refused. He was waiting for Sheng Yan’s “Chasing Wife Crematorium.” If he apologized now, how could the plot continue? Since Sheng Yan wanted to be so ruthless, Song Liguang would strike back. Even if it was a “kill 1,000 to lose 800” scenario, he had to vent his rage.

He quickly found the Substitute Contract he had signed with Sheng Yan years ago. He took photos of the cover and the signature page and posted them using a burner account: “Song Song has diligently fulfilled his contract for five years, never crossing the line. He has been in a bad state lately and made mistakes, but no one is a saint. Please, based on the past five years of affection, give him a way to live.”

The post exploded. Though the text was blurry, the signatures were unmistakable. The internet went into a frenzy.

“Wow! Substitute contracts actually exist!”

“This is more dramatic than a BL novel.”

“Who is the White Moonlight?!”

“But Sheng Yan seems too cruel. Song Song was his substitute for five years; even if there’s no merit, there’s hard work. To blackball him just because he’s in a bad state? That’s overkill.”

Public sympathy shifted. Compared to the massive Shengshi Group, Song Liguang was a “pitiful” small star and a tragic substitute at that.

Watching the public sentiment reach a fever pitch from his meeting room, Sheng Yan smiled. He liked a “stubborn” protagonist. Those were the easiest to crush in one blow so he wouldn’t have to waste more energy.

Shengshi’s official team immediately released a financial breakdown and a lawyer’s letter:

“The contract is a private matter between President Sheng and Mr. Song. Mr. Song using a private matter to fight a business dispute is inappropriate. Furthermore, President Sheng never mistreated Mr. Song. The contract serves as proof; money was paid, goods were delivered. What exactly is Mr. Song dissatisfied with?”

The financial breakdown listed the staggering amounts Shengshi had invested in Song Liguang and the monthly “substitute fees” Sheng Yan had transferred. The numbers were astronomical.

The lawyer’s letter sued him for leaking confidential information. The contract explicitly stated that the “B-party” (Song Liguang) could not go public. Since only Sheng Yan and Song Liguang had the contract, and the post was clearly in his favor, Sheng Yan had the right to hold him accountable.

If this were the old Sheng Yan, he might not have been so pedantic. But the “Villain” Sheng Yan knew that protagonists were like cockroaches. If you didn’t turn them to ash and scatter the dust, they could always come back.

The internet went quiet. If they could get paid that much a year, they wouldn’t just be a substitute—they’d be a horse or an ox. How could someone get that much money and still fail at a simple endorsement?

Song Liguang was stunned. He didn’t expect Sheng Yan to release such private financial details. Wasn’t Sheng Yan supposed to be obsessed with his “perfect” public image?

He wasn’t worried about the lawsuit—he could just blame a “passerby” for taking the photos. But the financial list, he bit his teeth and asked his system for a synthesized video. A video showing him suffering “cold violence,” verbal abuse, and personality insults from Sheng Yan.

With current world technology, no one would be able to tell the video was fake. By the time Sheng Yan found the real surveillance footage to clear his name, the damage would be done.

But as Song Liguang tried to post the video, it kept showing “Uploading…” and never went through. He tried dozens of accounts. He checked the trending page—the internet was moving fine.

“766, what’s happening?!”

The system checked: “Someone has blocked our right to speak.”

That “someone” was undoubtedly Sheng Yan. With a company that size, he could shadow-ban Song Liguang with a single word. While the system had high-tech, it couldn’t bypass a total manual blackout without drawing suspicious attention to itself.

“Should we try another platform?” the system asked.

“Useless,” Song Liguang said, his face ashen. Other platforms didn’t have the traffic of Weibo. Sheng Yan’s team would just find and block it there too.

“Then what?”

Song Liguang grabbed his phone with a look of desperation. “I have to use the pieces I planted inside Shengshi.”

It was a waste to use his “spies” now, but it was better than sitting and waiting for death.

On Weibo, people waited for a rebuttal that never came. Eventually, companies that had signed Song Liguang began sending termination notices. His TV shows, movies, and works were all pulled from platforms. Even the web series he was currently filming fired him.

The fans who once loved him now cursed him.

But none of that was the most devastating part. The final blow came in the form of messages from his two plants inside the company:

Wu Cheng: “Brother Song, I’ve been fired by Shengshi! What am I going to do now?!”

Gu Yiheng: “I’ve resigned from Shengshi. I won’t be able to help you anymore.”

Song Liguang’s hand went limp. He sank to the floor, eyes wide with disbelief. “How… how did it come to this!”

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