The Story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf, Miss, There Seems to Be a Bug on Your Shoe

The Shen Family Estate.

"Oh my, young mistress, is your family still hiring lackeys? How about me?"

Ye Cheng gazed at the surrounding greenery and the outrageously extravagant architecture with a mix of awe and amusement. The extravagance wasn’t just about money—it was clear that meticulous effort and top-tier design had gone into every structure.

It was the kind of vibe that couldn’t be put into words, but in Ye Cheng’s terms: ridiculously badass.

On the way over in the car, Ye Cheng had spotted plenty of people bustling around the Shen estate—maids, bodyguards, and, of course, lackeys (though the last one was purely his own imagination).

After all, some roles weren’t so easily defined. Take the short-haired woman, for instance—she pulled double duty as both a maid and a bodyguard. In Ye Cheng’s mind, she automatically fell into the category of a high-tier, top-ranked lackey.

He wondered what the pay was like, though. From the looks of it, working for the Shen family seemed like a cushy gig—clocking in at nine, clocking out at five, with benefits and subsidies to boot.

The only question was whether there’d be any street brawls involved. If he had to charge into battle wielding a watermelon knife, that might not be worth the risk—life-threatening situations weren’t exactly his thing.

But if he could just blend into the crowd of lackeys, coasting along and shouting stuff like "666!" or "Double kill!" while others did the actual fighting? That sounded manageable.

If nothing else, Ye Cheng was an expert at stirring the pot.

And if things got really bad? He was also a master at running away. At full sprint, unless someone was chasing him in a car, catching him was practically impossible.

Ye Cheng’s mind was already painting a picture of his glorious future as a Shen family lackey: clocking in, slacking off, napping at noon, slacking some more, and mooching food and drinks off the young mistress. Now that’s the good life.

Honestly, compared to a cushy government job, this seemed just as good—if not better. With the Shen family’s wealth, surely they wouldn’t mind one extra freeloader in their ranks, right?

Squish.

Just as Ye Cheng was lost in his daydreams, a familiar sensation returned to the top of his foot.

Ye Cheng: "…"

He blinked at the young mistress, who wore an expression that screamed, "Oops, my bad—thought that was a pebble." Unfortunately, Shen Qinghan remained as unresponsive as ever, the queen of silent treatment.

"Hey, young mistress, there’s a bug on your shoe!"

Ye Cheng pointed at Shen Qinghan’s black leather shoes with an innocent look. The young mistress froze, her pupils shrinking as her entire body visibly stiffened—along with her expression.

Seizing the opportunity, Ye Cheng quickly yanked his foot out from under hers. Shen Qinghan glanced down but saw no bug—just a certain idiot retracting his foot.

"Ah, too slow, young mistress! The bug already ran off. But I swear, there was one this big on your shoe just now!" Ye Cheng gestured earnestly.

Shen Qinghan: "…"

Thunk!

A lump significantly larger than usual formed on Ye Cheng’s head. Clearly, the young mistress was really angry this time—her strength had been supercharged, and so was the pain.

The short-haired woman had dropped them off and left, leaving just Ye Cheng and the young mistress outside.

Of course, Ye Cheng hadn’t come here just to mess around—he had actual business to attend to. Since he’d already skipped class, he needed an airtight alibi to avoid consequences.

Hence… a visit to the young mistress’s home to stage some "taking care of the sick young mistress" photos.

Whether it was real or fake didn’t matter—once the photos were out, even if they were staged, they’d become real. Nobody would dare call them fake unless they wanted to face an entirely different scenario.

"Oh, so you’re saying the Shen family’s heir would fake an illness just to cover for some nobody skipping class? Are you implying that I, a model student, would commit perjury?"

The first half of that statement was unassailable. The second half was full of holes—but still, nobody would dare refute it. To do so would mean implicating the young mistress as an accomplice. Who’d have the guts?

This was the wisdom of a seasoned bootlicker—many perks were invisible to the untrained eye. Like how the student council president often "cleaned up after him" (note: metaphorical, not literal—don’t overthink it).

Whether serving as the young mistress’s lackey or the council president’s lapdog, there were countless hidden benefits, and Ye Cheng reveled in every one.

Loyalty!!!

"Let’s go, young mistress—the sooner we finish, the sooner we can head back!"

Ye Cheng whipped out his phone and started snapping pictures of the Shen estate. His behavior mirrored that of socialite wannabes pooling money for an overpriced afternoon tea, taking turns posing for photos, only to end up fighting over who took the first bite and airing their drama online.

Ye Cheng rubbed the fresh lump on his head. Yep, that stings.

But hey, you had to admit—rich people really lived differently.

With exaggerated seriousness, Ye Cheng edited the photos, setting one as his social media background—replacing the old Big Bottle of Iced Tea—and captioned it: "Life’s tough, but I made it. The struggles of adulthood only hit at midnight…"

A textbook cringelord post. Without fail, the comments would soon flood with "manifesting this for me!!!", at which point Ye Cheng would screenshot the idiocy, repost it as a "social experiment on human nature," and watch his comment section explode with mother-laden insults.

Then, like a sponge, he’d absorb the trash talk, adding it to his arsenal.

What they can do, I can do better!

This was just one of Ye Cheng’s many inhuman antics—most people couldn’t even begin to understand his motives. It was why, whether it was the young mistress or the council president, every background check on Ye Cheng included one unavoidable note:

"Behavior slightly eccentric."

"Slightly" was putting it mildly. Anyone who actually interacted with him quickly realized just how unhuman he was—so much so that even the system had awarded him the prestigious title of "Wild Genius"!

Silently, a spider the size of a baby’s palm crawled out from the bushes, scurrying straight toward Shen Qinghan’s shoe and settling on her polished leather.

Ye Cheng snapped a few quick photos, crafted the perfect caption, and waited for the "fish" in his Moments to bite. "Alright, young miss, let's go!"

Shen Qinghan shot him a look that could only be described as "are you an idiot?" and let out a cold snort before turning to walk ahead. Suddenly, Ye Cheng’s arm shot out, blocking her path.

"Hmm?" Shen Qinghan’s delicate brows furrowed as she stared at him, puzzled.

"Young Miss, there seems to be a bug on your shoe," Ye Cheng said, blinking earnestly as he stared at her footwear.

Thud.

Ye Cheng: "……"

Click.

Silently, he took a photo of her shoe, zoomed in on the spider perched atop it, and then handed the phone to her.

"Young Miss, look—isn’t this…?" He zoomed in even further.

Shen Qinghan froze at the image, disbelief flashing across her face. She glanced at the photo, then—her body stiffening slightly—lowered her gaze to her shoe.

Ah, there it was. A big one.

Shen Qinghan: "……"

In the span of a second, sheer terror flickered in her eyes. Her entire body locked up like a wooden doll before she toppled backward.

Ye Cheng: "???"