Chapter 31: Mutual Encouragement Group

Wen Jiang finally decided to spend the entire weekend at Xie Qi’s house.

Well, calling it “house” wasn’t quite right. The place Wen Jiang was heading to was actually Xie Qi’s private residence, with no parents living there. After all, having adults around would make the kids feel awkward. Wen Jiang imagined himself in some room at the Xie Family’s main residence, uh, doing that kind of thing with Xie Qi, only to sit down for meals with his parents at dinnertime—he’d pull on a numb, paralyzed face full of rejection. Though to outsiders, it wouldn’t look any different from his usual expression.

No big deal, as long as Xie Qi could read it. In the end, Xie Qi gave him an address Wen Jiang had never seen before—apparently a birthday gift from his parents. Wen Jiang hadn’t been there and was actually a bit curious.

Compared to handling it like a cold business transaction, it sounded less awkward to frame it as hanging out with a friend for relaxation and sorting out “other matters” on the side. Probably. In any case, Wen Jiang chose to go along with it.

He could clearly sense that Xie Qi’s mood improved a lot after he agreed. When Xie Qi suggested he come over in the morning, stay for lunch, and so on, Wen Jiang nodded and said “sure” to all of it. Twenty minutes later, Xie Qi drove him home. The once-fragile Xie Qi had been perfectly pieced back together by Wen Jiang, restored to his original state inside and out, without a single crack left behind. Master Wen’s repair skills were flawless.

Of course, Xie Qi wasn’t like Lin Xun, but he wasn’t always “obedient” either. People in their circle probably all had this flaw. As long as Wen Jiang kept saying yes, Xie Qi shifted from feeling aggrieved and downcast to gradually pushing his luck, even starting to eye Saturday for “sticking together.” But his ambitions fell flat—Wen Jiang had already scheduled Saturday.

The Drama Club would likely hold an extra rehearsal on Saturday to catch up on their stalled progress from indecision over the script. Even if there was no rehearsal, Wen Jiang wouldn’t have time. This was a new plan he’d decided on the fly at the cake shop: he was ready to restart his part-time job life and save up some money soon.

There was also a little side episode. Lin Xun, who never used to initiate chats with Wen Jiang, had who-knows-what kind of self-adjustment after taking a hit. He flipped the script and started bombarding Wen Jiang with messages that evening.

21:00

Lin Xun: Little dog scores full marks.jpg

Lin Xun: Little bird sparkles on stage.jpg

Lin Xun: Wen Jiang Wen Jiang

Lin Xun: Which day do you wanna do your homework?

21:15

Lin Xun: Has anyone ever told you your name sounds nice?

21:20

Lin Xun: Need me to do anything else?

21:30

Lin Xun: I bought tickets to the Art Festival

Lin Xun: You performing, right?

Lin Xun: Full of anticipation.jpg

21:35

Lin Xun: Wanna act in the future too?

Lin Xun: Got a project, you interested?

Wen Jiang: Shut up

22:50

Lin Xun: Got it

Unsure how long “shut up” needed to last to satisfy Wen Jiang, Lin Xun finally went quiet and stopped spamming messages. With the practical assignment “line-jumper” temporarily sorted, his plans back on track, Wen Jiang could finally focus on the Drama Club.

The Yanhai Art Festival was drawing closer by the day. No matter what, they had to settle on a rehearsal direction this week. By the end of Friday at latest, the Drama Club needed a final decision on the script and role assignments.

Lin Wenzhi pushed to change the script and cast, likely tied to that SMS mix-up with Wen Jiang. But to say she was doing it purely “for Wen Jiang”—he wouldn’t buy that first.

Since it was “mutual encouragement,” Wen Jiang figured in Lin Wenzhi’s eyes, they were in the same boat now, or rather, a mutual encouragement squad both gunning to swap the script.

It was just that he’d been busy with homework before and never meddled in club decisions, so Lin Wenzhi had been the one driving things forward. Now that he was back on board, their interests aligned—they could team up. Wen Jiang figured she’d come to him soon.

—and sure enough, today. After school the next day, Wen Jiang calmly took the original old script and her newly finished draft from Lin Wenzhi’s hands.

The others packed up their bags and trickled out of the classroom one by one. Wen Jiang stayed put in his seat; Lin Wenzhi stayed put beside him. The two of them were like nails driven into a board, ignoring the flow of people around them, forming a silent, stable two-person line.

She definitely wanted to talk privately.

They’d been stable desk mates since enrollment, often teamed up for group work, the Drama Club’s recognized golden duo. They shared that wordless rapport. Wen Jiang flipped open the script with rigorous scrutiny. Experience and intuition told him: today was the day to uncover the SMS mystery. Their two-person squad was about to launch into action—though he still had no idea what the squad would actually do.

***

Today is the day to hash out the final plan with Wen Jiang, experience and intuition told Lin Wenzhi.

She’d mulled over changing the script and cast for a long time. As things stood, she could convince the club president, but they still needed that final push to officially approve the switch. Time was tight; she might need Wen Jiang for that last nudge.

To straighten it all out, the topic had to start with the Drama Club’s old script. Wen Jiang was the club’s current mainstay, but not every play made him the male lead.

In fact, to train newcomers, boost activity fun, and increase participation, the club often used pure lotteries for roles or even cast Wen Jiang in supporting parts. But for competitions gunning for first place, he’d definitely take the lead.

It should have been that way, but this time broke the mold. The Drama Club was entering the Yanhai Art Festival’s drama contest. During the first role assignment, the male lead spot went straight to next year’s underclassman.

Objectively speaking, the underclassman’s acting was nowhere near Wen Jiang’s level. Handing him the male lead put a question mark over whether they’d snag the Art Festival trophy.

The club president was probably aware but unwilling to change the lineup. During the internal vote, most people went along with it—no need to guess it was because the underclassman, Ke Yuan, was Jiang Hehu’s cousin.

Fine, she didn’t want to mess with Jiang Hehu either. Winning for the Drama Club would be great, but if not, Lin Wenzhi had no obsession. What she cared about was her script—but the problem was right there.

Writing a script then picking actors was worlds apart from picking actors first then tailoring the script. Without a contest, the club vibe was chill and freeform; Lin Wenzhi could experiment boldly without limits. But for competitions, the cast was reliable—the club’s strongest lineup—which saved her a ton of hassle.

Take Wen Jiang: he could handle a wide range of roles, from the stereotypical icy cold type to the total opposite sunny refreshment, bringing her imagined characters to life.

And just as writing scripts trained her textual Supernatural Ability 【Wonderful Pen Produces Flowers】, tackling diverse roles honed his 【Drama Stage】. She’d write freely; he’d take on whatever she created. Win-win for them. Factor in the rave reviews and funding their collabs brought the club? Three-way win.

But Ke Yuan was different. His range was narrow; many scenes bombed under him—better left out. Her script ended up choppy and restrained. She called this ordeal a preview of workplace hell.

Like a director demanding a gold-worthy deep script while locking in an underqualified lead actor. Key scenes got reworked repeatedly due to external pressure. Despite her fixes to make it passable and actor-friendly, over half the final draft wasn’t what she truly wanted. At lock-in, she felt that “client’s happy, whatever” resignation.

What irked Lin Wenzhi even more: to amp up highlights—or really, Ke Yuan’s spotlight—the old script axed Lu Jinghuai’s solo as the female lead, swapping it for a duet with him, plus three solo numbers for Ke Yuan.

Lu Jinghuai’s 【Heavenly Sound】 and Ke Yuan’s 【Angel’s Voice】 were both A-Rank. No way his singing beat hers. And that solo was crucial for the princess role—rounding out her arc, conveying emotion. Now it became a “love duet” with the prince; the princess faded, diluting the story’s core.

It sucked, in every sense. Thinking of the script mangled like this hurt; imagining it performed at the Yanhai Art Festival hurt worse. But fighting it…? She couldn’t commit. It dragged in favors and politics.

Drama wasn’t just hers—it took the whole club. Lu Jinghuai kept stressing privately she didn’t care about share, as long as she nailed her one scene. Probably worried about Lin Wenzhi becoming the one who sticks her neck out and inviting bigger trouble.

To fix it, the key was the lead, Ke Yuan. The script was custom-built around his strengths and weaknesses. Simplest, most direct fix: boot him, swap in Wen Jiang. Endless possibilities again.

Wen Jiang hadn’t objected to the role notice. But pushing her plan would drag him in. As a friend, she hesitated. She’d been set to play the emotionless “yes-man” contractor—until that SMS from Wen Jiang.

—”Will the princess become my treasure?”

Total nonsense. Her first thought: mix-up? Seconds later, knowing her desk mate—the aloof god-like Wen Jiang—was the type to send cryptic late-night texts?

…He really was.

The more she pondered, the more convinced: it had to be him. Deep meaning behind it.

Princess… what princess? A lame pun? Nah.

Under some invisible influence, every phrase had its logic. Lin Wenzhi donned her detective hat; clues auto-pointed to her top headache.

“Princess” from the script. Calling her a treasure? That’s “prince” talk—the male lead…

Bold guess: Wen Jiang was hinting he did want the male lead.

If Qian Lang were here, he’d say “princess” was his and Huo Xia Tong’s pet name—her avatar was a cute cartoon princess, pretty blushy.

Anyway, guess or not, she wouldn’t act on a hunch alone. Headaches remained, like Ke Yuan’s tie to Jiang Hehu—until she heard Wen Jiang beat down Jiang Hehu in front of everyone at the A-Rank Arena.

…Problem solved.

At this timing, hard not to read into it… right? Totally plausible?

With the A-Rank Arena beatdown as pivot, Lin Wenzhi restarted her push to overhaul script and lead. While Wen Jiang was swamped with practical homework, she’d even asked him straight: “Wanna be the lead?”

Wen Jiang’s face betrayed no emotion as he met Lin Wenzhi’s gaze head-on, plainly conveying his “want.”

Got it, Lin Wenzhi thought. She gripped her “fellow fighter’s” hand earnestly. “Mutual encouragement!”

Wen Jiang matched her deadpan expression with perfect cooperation. “Mutual encouragement.”

After that, Wen Jiang temporarily withdrew from the battlefield due to homework. Lin Wenzhi then formally proposed revising the script and recommended him as the lead in the new version. With Jiang Hehu—the biggest headache—now handled on Wen Jiang’s end, a few rounds of debate later, she’d rallied a fair bit of support. Now, only the wavering club president held the decisive vote.

If they were going to hash this out, today was definitely the best time. Lin Wenzhi watched as Wen Jiang finished flipping through both versions of the script, then broke the silence with the first question. “Wen Jiang, what do you think of the new script?”

The difference was immediately clear, Wen Jiang thought.

He’d been too busy before to dive in, so he’d only skimmed Lin Wenzhi’s original first draft of the old version and hadn’t joined any of the follow-up discussions. All he’d heard was that progress on the script hadn’t been ideal.

In his memory, that initial draft had been a genuinely intriguing story. On the surface, it was a fairy-tale adventure of a prince, a princess, and the elves who watched over them—but at its core, it carried a bold, spicy satire skewering reality. A few more rounds of polishing, and it could’ve become something truly outstanding.

But… after reading the final approved version of the old script, Wen Jiang was convinced something had gone wrong in their club. The end result wasn’t entirely unrelated to the draft—it still bore some resemblance—but the plot rhythm and character development had shifted dramatically. It felt like in trying to refine it, they’d sanded away all the edges, turning it into something increasingly mediocre that had lost its original spark.

The old script’s plot wasn’t terrible on its own merits. But Lin Wenzhi was the one who’d written it, and based on what Wen Jiang knew of her, this fell far short of her usual standard.

By contrast, the new script she’d championed—pushing for a full rewrite as if to prove she hadn’t run out of talent—offered a noticeably superior reading experience. It even rejiggered the casting: Wen Jiang went from a background nobody in the old script to the male lead in the new one, while Ke Yuan, originally slated for the protagonist spot, got bumped down to third male lead.

He recalled Lin Wenzhi specifically asking if he wanted the lead role. All the clues lined up with his hunch: she wanted to swap scripts, and swapping scripts meant elevating him to male lead. They really were a mutual encouragement squad bound by shared interests.

“Pretty interesting,” Wen Jiang answered honestly.

Lin Wenzhi pressed him. “Compared to the old one?”

“I prefer the new one,” Wen Jiang continued honestly. After a moment’s thought, he added, “If we’re aiming for awards, I think the new script has a better shot.”

“I think so too.” Lin Wenzhi nodded in agreement. “If we’re performing at the Yanhai Art Festival, I’d rather go with this version.”

“So, to make our plan to stage the new script a reality,” Lin Wenzhi flashed him a V-sign with a smooth pivot back to their mutual encouragement squad’s inside agenda, “I might need you to do two things afterward.”