Saving The White Moonlight's Substitute (1)

Ephraim blinked, staring blankly at the microphone in his sweaty hands. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming his lungs out. But that didn't make sense—he didn't scream into mics. Hell, he'd never even held one outside of those cringey middle school and high school presentations he got forced into.

Yet, here he was, standing in front of what looked like thousands of people. Cheering. Screaming. Chanting his name. All of them waiting—no, expecting him to say something. Or worse, if the backing track was anything to go by, sing something.

He tensed.

[Rachel: Earth to Ephraim~!]

A voice chimed in his head, snapping him back to reality. Right. Rachel wasn't physically here. His system partner existed in his spiritual space—some mission-executioner thing he barely understood. They could communicate mentally.

[Ephraim: Hey, uh. Problem. I can't sing. Like, at all. What's the move?]

[Rachel: Obviously, you don't just start wailing into the mic. You don't know enough about the situation yet, honey.]

[Ephraim: Sick. Love that for me. So what do I do?]

[Rachel: Can you pass out convincingly?]

[Ephraim: Oh, easy. Watch this.]

Ephraim gasped for breath, stumbling side to side, his fingers going slack as the microphone slipped from his grip. The loud thud it made against the stage sent an ear-piercing screech through the concert hall's speakers.

The crowd stilled.

For a split second, confusion hung in the air. Then came the panic.

Murmurs rose like waves, and before he could count to three, staff members were already rushing toward him. Not that they got there in time. He was already hitting the ground, exhaling one last shaky breath before letting his eyes flutter shut. A perfect, grandiose display of passing out.

[Rachel: Absolute cinema, hon. Truly inspiring.]

[Ephraim: Appreciate it. Now, uh… how long do I have to keep this up?]

[Rachel: Any moment now, they'll whisk you off to the hospital, check your vitals, and fuss over your condition.]

[Ephraim: So I just stay down till then.]

[Rachel: That's right, doll. Once they get a professional to check you over, I'll transfer the data about your current body to you. Since the body's physical condition fluctuates a lot during data transfer, the medical tech of these small worlds won't be able to track it properly. They'll probably chalk it up to severe stress or some vague illness, and boom—instant excuse for passing out on stage.]

[Ephraim: Wow. The brain power at work here. Love that for you. And me. But I guess that's expected of a B-grade system like you, huh.]

When Rachel had dumped all that data into his head earlier in the central space, Ephraim had learned that system partners and mission executioners were ranked across six grades based on skill and experience. D-grade was basically rookie level. A-grade meant you were a pro. And then there was S-grade—the crème de la crème. Central space nobility. The ones you barely ever saw.

Of course, with rank came privilege. Higher grades got better living conditions, and from what he'd gathered, S-grades lived like royalty. Not that he had the mental capacity to worry about that right now.

Ephraim, obviously, was E-grade. Rachel, on the other hand, was B-grade.

On the platform, the noticeboards were categorized by grade. The information of the person to be saved wasn't listed under their personal grade, but rather the grade of the mission they had been executing before getting trapped.

Members of the Savior System Department could only select missions from boards that matched their team's combined grade. For Ephraim and Rachel, their combined team grade was C, D, and E—meaning they had access to missions from those boards. Rachel had advised him to pick an E or D-grade mission for his first attempt. So, after scanning both boards, Ephraim had eventually chosen a mission from the E-grade noticeboard.

Now, here he was. And honestly? He was struggling real hard to keep his mouth shut.

The strong arms holding him up—probably belonging to a staff member—were carrying him out in a rush. And wow. The dude had some serious strength. Ephraim really wanted to compliment him.

[Ephraim: Hey, uh… What exactly are we right now?]

[Rachel: A worker and an unconscious celebrity.]

[Ephraim: Ooh, love that. Very cinematic.]

Unfortunately, his fun was cut short when they laid him on the ground and—oh. CPR.

It took every ounce of self-control not to cough or even twitch a muscle. The more he resisted, the redder his face became. This was so much harder than it looked.

"Oh no, his complexion… It's getting worse! Where the hell is the ambulance?!"

"Hongjie Dazhang, calm down! They'll be here any second."

"How am I supposed to calm down?! I'm telling you, check every single staff member who worked with Xiāoyù today! He was perfectly fine this morning—how the hell did this happen?!"

"Hongjie Dazhang, Hongjie Dazhang, breathe—oh! Look, the paramedics are here! See? We'll be fine. He will be fine. Staff is handling the crowd. Xiaoyu will wake up any second now, just you watch."

[Ephraim: …I'm Xiaoyu?]

[Rachel: Seems like it. Now then, Xiaoyu, I'm transferring half the data to you. Deep breaths, babe.]

[Ephraim: And the other half?]

[Rachel: Once you're in the hospital. Can't have you looking too healthy after all that, right? Gotta keep up the drama.]

Before Ephraim could respond, the paramedics reached him and started their examination—right as Rachel dumped half the information into his brain.

Instant regret.

A wave of nausea hit him like a truck. His body screamed for air, but the only thing he could inhale was the overwhelming stench of sweat, which just made him want to hurl even more. His temples throbbed, his head spun, and keeping a convincingly unconscious expression was now a full-time job. His face grew paler by the second.

And so, there he lay—an intruder in someone else's life, barely holding it together, while a frantic group of staff hovered around him, looking just as ghostly.

After all, what was the absolute worst scenario for a medical team?

Not knowing what was wrong with their patient.

The chatter around him never stopped. The man everyone called Hongjie Dazhang was spiraling—snapping at anyone who so much as breathed wrong.

The paramedics kept trying to reassure him, repeating the same line over and over:

"We've got this. He'll be fine."

Again and again.

And again.

By the time they reached the ambulance, the phrase had become a full-blown mantra. It followed him all the way to the hospital, echoing through every hallway, like some kind of desperate prayer.

Then came the actual medical professionals. Under their expert—and slightly anxious—scrutiny, Rachel oh-so-graciously dumped the rest of the data into his brain.

Little by little.

In tiny, excruciating bursts.

Ephraim didn't know what he looked like from the outside, but judging by the way the doctors kept glancing at each other in barely concealed panic, it was not good. His fluctuating condition had them doubting their entire medical careers. Probably their life choices, too.

Eventually, after way too much back and forth, he was admitted to a private room. An IV was stuck in his hand, his body finally stable, and his very unconscious face bore the lingering traces of a battle hard-fought—one of effort, pain, and possibly some deep, deep regret.

[Ephraim: Should've just sung on stage. I feel so much worse now.]

[Rachel: And have your tragic performance recorded and spread like wildfire? The internet is a scary place, babe.]

[Ephraim: Okay, but seriously—if data transfers are this horrifying, to the point where trained doctors are crying over it, shouldn't central space, I don't know… fix it?]

[Rachel: Sweetheart, central space is run by humans. Not gods. They're literally transferring foreign information straight into your consciousness without even touching you. A little temporary discomfort is very reasonable.]

The moment the last lingering nurse finally left the room, Ephraim cracked his eyes open and inhaled deeply.

"Ahhh. Medicine."

It was infinitely better than the god-awful stench of sweat from earlier.

After taking a second to scan the room, he immediately perked up, excitement flickering in his eyes as he searched for a reflective surface. His gaze landed on the unbelievably shiny and clean IV pole nearby.

Rising to a sitting position in bed, Ephraim listened carefully for any sounds outside the room. He needed to gauge whether someone was about to walk in and catch him looking suspiciously healthy—the kind of healthy that would make the country's frail nobility collectively clutch their pearls in shame.

And honestly? He wanted to milk this weak, delicate patient act for a little while longer. It was kinda fun.

Squinting his eyes to magically magnify his vision if possible, he tilted his head from side to side, taking in his new reflection. His features were delicate, almost unreal in their beauty. But the real showstopper? His eyes.

Hazel? Maybe.

But honestly, they shimmered more gold than any green or light brown.

[Ephraim: This is my first time seeing a celebrity's face up close. Omg. He's so pretty. Can't believe I'm in the body of such a hottie. Dude looks super photogenic.]

[Rachel: Right? No wonder he's so vain about his looks. Honestly? Understandable.]

Ephraim nodded in deep, solemn agreement.

This was the face of an angel. The kind of face that made people want to write poetry, paint portraits, and cry in aesthetic appreciation.

Not at all the face of a jealous, selfish villain.

But well… that was the role he had just stepped into.