Scenes that needed reenactment often couldn’t do without “people,” which naturally meant they couldn’t do without actors who could pass for the real thing so convincingly. Linking this to fields like psychology, medicine, or even hypnosis-assisted therapy was one viable career path for performance-type ability users.
Tying all this to physiological desires might not be entirely appropriate, but one thing was certain: if that nonexistent ideal phantom from that day had gone just a step further and done a little something more, Lin Xun wouldn’t be suffering like he was now.
Besides, it was all because his thresholds had spiked in the first place. Making an image that met those thresholds reappear was obviously the simplest fix. Just venting once like that would improve his condition by a lot.
“One for one. You just have to act it out once, and you should also be…”
Lin Xun trailed off oddly here. For some reason, voicing the assumption felt like he was coming off as “delusional for reaching too high.” But when he really thought about their respective statuses, shouldn’t Wen Jiang be the one reaching?
“…still in the affected period. You’ll have a second wave of heat later.” Lin Xun paused, then pressed on. “But as long as it solves the problem, I don’t care about the process. I won’t touch you at all if you don’t want. And if this try doesn’t work, I won’t bother you again.”
This was the second person to mention being affected by the Charm-Type Supernatural Ability—and in completely different ways from Xie Qi’s motives, methods, or ideas.
The words sounded pretty nice, like he was offering plenty of benefits, framing it as an equal trade. Wen Jiang’s mind wandered for a second: wasn’t this just like those TV drama tropes where someone offers “five million to leave my kid alone”?
Except the “payment” here was a tempting homework assignment. Rough words, but sound advice. If Lin Xun had straight-up applied with “Pretend to be my ideal partner and help me sort out my physiological issue,” Wen Jiang would’ve chucked the request straight into the trash. And there wouldn’t have been this conversation today.
This guy… Wen Jiang eyed Lin Xun. He considered all this upfront—pretty self-aware. So why did he end up thinking “reenactment” would get him what he wanted?
That sensation of being deliberately set up in the hotel had started building the moment he’d walked in and seen Lin Xun. It peaked once he’d sorted through his thoughts. No surprise there—getting tossed in the bathroom once clearly hadn’t taught Lin Xun his lesson.
“Lin Xun,” Wen Jiang said bluntly, not mincing words. “Your problem? You brought it on yourself.”
Lin Xun’s heart sank a little inside, but he didn’t argue. From the start, he hadn’t thought Wen Jiang would be easy to convince. He only cared about the end “result.” But before he could say anything, Wen Jiang pivoted: “But I can agree to it.”
“One for one, just this once,” Wen Jiang stated flatly, laying out the basic rules with no expression. “You’ll do exactly what I say.”
“…You agreed awfully fast.” The situation had turned smooth out of nowhere, and Lin Xun blinked, half-disbelieving as he joked, “It’s making me a little uneasy.”
So? Wen Jiang didn’t respond, silently urging him on—as if Lin Xun hesitated even a second longer, the deal was off.
“…Fine.” He wouldn’t have known what Wen Jiang wanted anyway if he refused. Urged like this, Lin Xun made a snap decision. “So when do we start?”
Wen Jiang said, “Now.”
Lin Xun: ……
Lin Xun: ?
A flood of thoughts exploded in Lin Xun’s mind in an instant. “What do you want me to do?”
Wen Jiang spoke flatly: “Sit.”
Lin Xun choked, trying to confirm again. “Huh?”
“Stay right here.” Wen Jiang stopped looking at him and pulled out his homework from his backpack instead. “Don’t move.”
＊＊＊
What the hell is this?
Time ticked by, second by second. Lin Xun sat there woodenly, watching Wen Jiang work on his exercises. The guy solved problems smoothly, barely pausing. Focused solely on him like this, the scene might’ve even been a little pleasing to the eye.
At first, Lin Xun had the leisure to glance at Wen Jiang’s test paper topics, checking his calculations.
A little while later, boredom set in. He tried talking to the guy scribbling out solutions. “Hey…”
“Shut up.” Wen Jiang didn’t look up.
Lin Xun sat in silence again.
But moments later, his mind started wandering back to Wen Jiang’s Supernatural Ability—the Drama Stage. Exactly when did it kick in?
Wen Jiang had once said, “Wanna guess when the Ability started?” That might mean it activated before that line. But he’d been so effortlessly in control the whole time, utterly confident Lin Xun wouldn’t guess right. So the real start was probably not at some super obvious point.
Those smiles that always struck him as gorgeously alluring, that cool tone with its subtle hook, the high-five that had forcibly locked his gaze—clearly fishy—were probably all smokescreens to obscure the true timing.
The first time Wen Jiang flashed a smile that wasn’t quite “Wen Jiang” was when he’d agreed to play the game. Lin Xun had guessed that moment and been told it was wrong, so it started even earlier?
But before then, he’d sensed no fluctuations, no shallow hunch that “he’s acting.”
I’d been watching for his Ability from the second I walked in… Unless… A bold guess hit Lin Xun. “You weren’t using it before we even entered the shop, were you?”
That’s why I felt zero shift when he entered my view—because by the time Wen Jiang appeared, he was already synced up on stage.
Wen Jiang’s pen paused mid-problem. He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Lin Xun’s heart leaped, pounding as he awaited the verdict—but in the next second, that surprise vanished like mist. Wen Jiang said coldly, “Wrong.”
Lin Xun: ……
Am I getting played by this model student everyone’s calling a “good kid”? Lin Xun opened his mouth, but before his thoughts could form words, Wen Jiang cut in: “Lin Xun.”
“Your time’s extended by half an hour.” Wen Jiang finished the last number on the page and pulled out another workbook.
“……”
Lin Xun was sharp; Wen Jiang didn’t worry he wouldn’t get it. Though unspoken, Lin Xun swallowed all his remaining words, face twisting as he sat back down.
He got it—this extra half hour was punishment for breaking the “shut up” order.
Quiet returned. Fifteen minutes later, Lin Xun hadn’t spoken, but he started checking his phone time more and more often.
Hasn’t the half hour passed yet?
…He needed the bathroom.
Chugging that water as punishment had backfired hard. He’d felt it coming earlier, but it was tolerable then. Tack on this damn half hour, and now every minute was pure agony.
As the saying went, one leads to two, two to three. He glanced at Wen Jiang. Another physiological urge emboldened him toward sneaking off to the restroom. He’d barely shifted toward the edge of his seat when Wen Jiang kicked him hard under the table.
“Sit.”
The coldest, lowest voice he’d heard all day rang in his ear, paired with unsparing pain. Lin Xun jolted, the water in his bladder sloshing. Stiffened by the intensified discomfort, a spark of humiliated anger flared—then snuffed out in the snow. Wen Jiang sounded genuinely pissed. After a tense standoff, Lin Xun silently settled back in his original spot.
He was always like this with Wen Jiang: take a setback, turn obedient on the spot. But soon he’d start itching to test boundaries again, piss the guy off, then feel that prickly unease inside. This cycle played out perfectly while Wen Jiang did homework—Lin Xun noticed it himself.
This isn’t normal, Lin Xun mused silently.
To put it extremely: even if he and his crew struck first at the hotel, Wen Jiang’s response was justified self-defense. Morally, he had the high ground, and it meant nothing fundamentally. Lin Xun’s approach here might seem arrogant to outsiders, but in their circle, it was downright polite. If he’d gone harder instead of negotiating nicely with Wen Jiang himself—what could Wen Jiang do?
The real headaches were Xie Qi and Qian Lang, who’d indirectly handed Wen Jiang leverage in all this.
…Right?
The logic checked out, but Lin Xun could never fully buy it.
For example… He posed the question to himself. In a scenario with zero chance of a third party knowing, could I just smash a vase over Wen Jiang’s head without a care?
Too weird.
Lin Xun realized, belatedly, that he might actually be a little afraid of Wen Jiang.
That first encounter’s setback—when the Wen Jiang back then had gripped his chin so tightly it felt inescapable—wasn’t much of a power move. His attitude toward Wen Jiang truly shifted after seeing him perform at Qingchi Theater. And it wasn’t mere “art appreciation.”
If Wen Jiang could just make him watch flawlessly, effortlessly enjoying the show, Lin Xun would’ve seen him as the perfect pet bird, the ideal ornament.
But that performance wasn’t like that. Behind the abnormally total immersion lurked an S-Grade Esper Ability juggernaut that crushed in, dominating every sense, leaving shock even after the curtain fell. It fundamentally shook the audience’s superior position—the right to judge if a show met their tastes.
That vague danger and wariness from back then must’ve lingered subconsciously, mingling with his current curiosity about how Wen Jiang would “help.” Even as discomfort mounted, he still sat there as ordered.
…How many minutes left? I’m about to burst.
What kind of contrast therapy is this? Compared to this awkward, urgent bladder-ball torment, the mere heat waves almost seemed bearable—at least those he could shower off!
No amount of distraction worked forever. Lin Xun self-analyzed, silently scrolled his muted phone, mentally followed Wen Jiang’s problem-solving, tried every trick. His sense of time evolved from minutes dragging like years to seconds crawling like years. Finally, he slumped over the table in defeat, utterly uncomposed—the only sound Wen Jiang turning pages.
One problem, then another. Wen Jiang never glanced up, treating him like air. Damn it—he’s just doing homework nonstop. Why does he notice every time I twitch even a little?
No answers came, and he sure as hell couldn’t ask now. Lin Xun switched to mentally tallying Wen Jiang’s problems. At last, after another page flip, his pre-set phone alarm blared. He shot upright, killed the sound, and blurted in broken desperation: “Gonna hit the bathroom.”
“Mm.” It seemed entirely expected. Wen Jiang closed his workbook and stood. “Let’s go.”
Lin Xun: …….?
Lin Xun’s mind blanked for a beat.
