IBO – Chapter 1 The Beginning of Everything

This novel contains sensitive and taboo content like R*pe, Mu**er etc. Read only if you are comfortable.

This was the hottest summer S City had seen in its history. Around noon, most people were hurrying home for lunch, and even the cicadas had quieted down a great deal.

At this moment, Song Yiran’s soul was floating inside a hospital ward, staring longingly at the body lying on the hospital bed.

It had already been two months since he was hit by a car and became a vegetable. Every day, he fixated on his own body, hoping that one day he could return to it.

During this time, he tried every method he could think of—chanting all kinds of cringey incantations, even shouting “Open sesame.”

Yet none of it worked. The doctors had long since issued a notice: it was very likely that for the rest of his life, he would remain a wandering spirit, guarding his own body.

Thinking about this made Song Yiran sad. He was just a college graduate who had only recently finished school. That day, he had been happily carrying his résumé to an interview.

Who would have thought he’d get hit by a car—and end up as a ghost.

When Song Yiran first realized he had become a ghost, he couldn’t accept his own death and desperately wanted to return to his body.

But after a month of trying, and realizing he probably couldn’t go back, he had no choice but to accept it. He even started thinking that being a ghost wasn’t so bad—you could roam around freely, and nobody could see you.

And in soul form, he definitely wouldn’t be allergic to animal fur anymore. He could even pet fluffy creatures!

Unfortunately, not long after, Song Yiran discovered that he couldn’t move more than about ten meters away from his body.

That made things very troublesome. He was left with only two options.

Either keep trying every possible way to return to his body, or stay here guarding this hospital room every day.

Song Yiran chose the former and tried for another month.

Finally, he erupted in helpless rage. “Ah! Why! Is my glorious youth really going to be spent like this—stuck here forever as a ghost?!”

Just then, an aged voice suddenly sounded in his mind.

“You are the one chosen by history, young man. Are you willing to sign a contract with me?”

Song Yiran had read web novels for years. He immediately understood—he’d been chosen by a system.

Excited, he said, “I know, I know! Next you’re going to tell me the benefits of signing the contract, right? Like letting me go back to the moment before I got hit by the car. I’m willing! I’m willing!”

The voice didn’t respond right away. After a full minute, it finally spoke again.

“Very good, young man. You truly live up to my expectations as the one I’ve chosen.”

Soon after, Song Yiran felt his vision blur. When he could see clearly again, he found himself inside a slightly messy study.

Floating in front of him was an oval-shaped unknown creature. It looked soft and bouncy—probably very nice to touch.

The unknown creature said solemnly, “Young man, have you truly prepared yourself? This is no game. One careless step, and both you and I will be buried in the long river of history.”

So this soft, bouncy unknown creature was actually the system from earlier? That was way too cute. He really wanted to pet it.

But why did the system’s voice suddenly sound like the protagonist of a hot-blooded shōnen anime? It sounded so passionate.

Song Yiran pulled his wandering thoughts back and said seriously, “I’ve thought it through. Since I can’t return to my body, and I can’t leave it either, I might as well sign a contract with you. At least that way, there’s still a chance.”

Honestly, if only he could touch a phone. Ghosts couldn’t interact with physical objects. Being stuck in a hospital room every day without even being able to use a phone would drive anyone crazy.

He might as well follow this system—at least it was soft and bouncy.

Curious, Song Yiran asked, “By the way, why does your voice sound different from before? Earlier it was clearly very old—why did it suddenly turn into a hot-blooded shōnen protagonist’s voice?”

The system’s beady little eyes darted around as it avoided his gaze, clearly trying to change the subject.

Nervously, the system said, “Ahem, ahem, ahem—that’s not the important part. Since you’ve already decided, let’s begin. Close your eyes first.”

Song Yiran did as instructed and closed his eyes.

The system said excitedly, “Set off! Our destination is—interstellar space!

…

Alright, we’re here. You can open your eyes now.”

Song Yiran opened his eyes and found himself standing in front of a childcare orphanage. But the signboard was practically falling apart, and the inside looked just as dilapidated, completely out of place compared to the surrounding buildings.

Wait—that’s not right. Song Yiran suddenly realized that the words on the sign were clearly written in a script he didn’t recognize. So why could he read them?

As if hearing his thoughts, the system explained, “Relax, young man. I copied and pasted your original body over here.

“And I even modified it a bit to make sure you can live normally in this place.”

“You can now understand and speak the interstellar language,” the system added. “You can even write it.”

Song Yiran went full surprised-gopher mode. That was way too amazing.

He wanted to praise the system, but his vocabulary reserves didn’t quite allow it. So he simply gave the system two thumbs up.

The system winked at him, accepting the praise.

Then the system said slowly, “Young man, I know I’m excellent. But next time you want to praise me, just say it in your heart. Try not to make any gestures.”

“Eh, why?” Song Yiran was completely baffled.

The system looked at him with the kind of gaze one might use on the village idiot at the crossroads, and said disdainfully, “Kid, do you know that other people can’t see me? All they can see is you standing there making inexplicable hand gestures.”

“Ahhhhh! It’s over—my reputation for an entire lifetime—no, two lifetimes!” Song Yiran truly turned into a screaming groundhog this time.

Of course, he didn’t dare scream out loud. He only howled internally, utterly miserable.

Seeing him like this, the system stopped scaring him and comforted him instead. “Kid, it’s fine, it’s fine. I was just messing with you. I specifically chose a time when there wouldn’t be anyone around. Don’t worry—no one can see you.”

Only then did Song Yiran relax, though he also suspected he might have overreacted a bit.

That person who had been wailing in his head over such a trivial matter definitely wasn’t him. Speaking of which, he wondered if the food here was any good.

Pulling his wandering thoughts back, Song Yiran asked curiously, “System, according to the usual, shouldn’t I be doing quests? What’s my task? Oh right—what should I call you?”

The system replied seriously, “Kid, the childcare center you see now already belongs to you. Your task is to care for every child here and help them grow up healthy. In short: the child-raising mission.”

“As for how to address me,” the system added, “kid, you may call me ‘the Faithful Guardian of the Great God of History.’ If that’s too long, you can just call me ‘Guardian.’”

What kind of name was that? That was way too Zhong’er.

Back when his own middle-school syndrome had flared up, even he hadn’t picked a name this Zhong’er. Was this system really reliable? Did he really have to call it Guardian from now on?

But that name was so awkward—and the full title was even worse.

Help. How was he supposed to address the system in the future?

Great. He could no longer look at the system straight.

How did this system manage to say all of that with such a straight face?

Song Yiran wore a blank expression on his face, and his mind was equally blank.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Song Yiran asked cautiously, “System, according to the usual, you should have colleagues, right? What do they usually call you?”

“Th-this…” The system grew shy and squirmed a little before saying, “They say I’m in the terminal stage of Zhong’er, and they usually call me Xiao Zhong’er.”

Ah—saved!

Song Yiran felt immensely grateful for that sudden flash of inspiration.

Although it seemed the system didn’t like the nickname “Xiao Zhong’er” very much, compared to some bizarre ‘Guardian’ title, “Xiao Zhong’er” was practically an angelic name, okay!

Xiao Zhong’er, I’m sorry.

With an inexplicable smile, Song Yiran said, “Alright, Xiao Zhong’er. I understand. I’ll call you that from now on.”

Xiao Zhong’er had nothing to say. Xiao Zhong’er decided to shut down emotionally.

After settling the issue of how to address the system, Song Yiran began to carefully inspect his childcare center.

The original signboard had turned gray and dingy, hanging there and swaying precariously.

Half of the main gate had already fallen off; the remaining half stubbornly held on, completely overgrown with weeds.

Song Yiran continued inside and found some small facilities in the yard—probably children’s play equipment.

But those too were gray and filthy, likewise overrun with weeds.

The courtyard itself was a paradise of weeds, growing everywhere. Some had even reached Song Yiran’s waist.

This place was way too desolate. Would any parent really send their child here? Song Yiran couldn’t help but mutter to himself internally.

Song Yiran crossed the courtyard and arrived at the largest building in the orphanage.

He first went to take a look at the classrooms. Interstellar classrooms looked pretty much the same as those on Blue Star.

The only difference was that the classrooms were completely covered in dust—cleaning them would take a very long time.

Song Yiran then went to check the children’s dormitories, his own room, and the director’s office. As expected, all of them were coated in dust as well—who knew how long it had been piling up.

Finally, Song Yiran realized there was still one room he hadn’t checked yet.

After stepping into that room, he froze in confusion.

So… could someone explain to him why this room contained several rows of objects that looked exactly like incubators?

There were three rows in total, with four in each row.

Most importantly—why was this the only room without any dust?!

Even the director’s office was dusty, damn it!

But the real issue was still these incubator-like devices.

Song Yiran asked in confusion, “Xiao Zhong’er, what are these? Why do they look so much like incubators?”

Xiao Zhong’er explained, “You’re not mistaken, young man. These don’t just look like incubators—they are incubators. The children we’re going to receive are a bit special…”

Song Yiran said in surprise, “Then the conditions here aren’t that bad. It looks run-down, but it actually has so many incubators. I remember incubators only existed in hospitals.”

“No, young man, you’re wrong. Quite the opposite—conditions here are extremely poor. Because incubators were phased out in the interstellar era decades ago,” Xiao Zhong’er added.

“Their childcare effectiveness is the worst. Without artificial assistance, the survival rate of the children is only 30%. Now, young man—do you understand how important you are?” Xiao Zhong’er said seriously.

Song Yiran fell silent for a long time, then said softly, “I’m sorry, faithful guardian of the great God of History. Let’s terminate the contract.”

Xiao Zhong’er asked in shock, “Why? Do you realize you’ll die? Your soul form can only last at most two months. If you refuse the contract with me, once your soul returns, you’ll just be waiting for death.”

Song Yiran replied hoarsely, “I never studied medicine or nursing. I even majored in agriculture at university.

“These incubators definitely aren’t just decorations. Everything else is covered in dust except them. The child-rearing missions will definitely involve eggs in the future! But without artificial assistance, the children’s survival rate is only 30%!”

“But how am I supposed to assist? At best, I only know CPR—and that’s for adults. I can’t do it. I can’t harm them!”

“I’m sorry. Let’s terminate the contract. I was too rash back then. Whether I live or die doesn’t matter anymore—ever since the car hit me, it was already destined.”

“Next time, remember to find someone who’s proficient in medicine and has patience with children.”

Xiao Zhong’er panicked. Song Yiran had misunderstood something—the so-called artificial assistance actually just meant…

At that moment, a shout from the front gate broke the heavy atmosphere inside the room.

“Is anyone here? Is anyone inside?”

Song Yiran shouted back loudly, “Yes! Yes! I’m coming right away!”

When he reached the gate, he saw a tall, sturdily built man.

The man said lazily, “I’m from the district community office, here to hand things over. The kid’s over there—I’ll be heading out now.”

The man pointed at a pile of weeds by the entrance and left after speaking.

Song Yiran was just about to call after him to say they weren’t accepting children for the time being, when movement in the grass caught his attention.

A child shouldn’t be that small, right? Small enough to be completely hidden inside?

That pile of weeds only reached his calves—there was no way it could hide a child.

Unless it was only a few months old… but judging by the man’s attitude, that didn’t seem likely.

Song Yiran carefully parted the weeds—

And what he saw was… a fluffy little bundle!