Xie Qi recalled some things from the past.
He must have been dreaming. In the dream, he kept falling endlessly, as if plunging into a bottomless pit.
Darkness surrounded him, with no sounds at all—not even a whisper of wind. With nothing else to do, Xie Qi turned to reminiscing about old times.
Dreams made no sense; they twisted however they pleased. As soon as he began to recall, the enveloping blackness cooperated by fading away, morphing into scenes from his past. Xie Qi watched them like flipping through a photo album inscribed with his name, or viewing an old black-and-white film.
Most of the content was dreadfully dull.
Private lessons, Supernatural Ability checks, mock battles, monotonous school life, endless parties, gatherings, races, extreme sports.
He was the sole spectator in the audience seats, looking back on his life as if it belonged to someone else. Boredom soon crept in again. I should think of something more interesting, he figured.
So, Xie Qi thought of Wen Jiang.
Wen Jiang actually had a rich inner world of emotions.
Outsiders saw him as aloof and composed, or indifferently cold—whatever the label, people instinctively matched his mood swings to his expressions, like a snow-capped peak shrouded in eternal mist, mysterious and untouchable, forever detached from the world below, gazing down with icy detachment.
Xie Qi didn’t deny this, but it wasn’t the whole picture. Wen Jiang had plenty of likes, plenty of people he cared for. In comfortable surroundings, he’d grow drowsy from pure relaxation; caught off-guard, he’d turn even more languid and easygoing. He was accommodating on some matters, stubbornly persistent on others, fully aware of his strengths, and quick to agree when praised—as if it were only natural.
He favored logical thinking to derive precise conclusions, yet he wasn’t rigid. Sometimes, he’d reveal a shrewd grasp of rules and rhetoric—a certain “slickness.”
Like expertly cheating at cards, or using acting skills to nudge others into agreeing with him, or flawlessly filling out the “personal shortcomings and reflections” sections in reports with cookie-cutter responses.
Wen Jiang actually enjoyed pranks.
His weren’t the grand, orchestrated kind—no intent to humiliate, rarely any elaborate setup. They were spur-of-the-moment, their hallmark being no tell whatsoever.
To describe it precisely: Imagine walking home at night and spotting him by the roadside. You greet him casually, then go your separate ways—you keep walking, he does his thing. A few steps later, he silently creeps up from behind and pokes you out of nowhere.
If you flinched, prank successful—he’d feel a quiet thrill. If not, no big deal. Wen Jiang’s pranks were oddly effective; in situations where Xie Qi could spot them coming, they hit every time without fail. Whether others noticed was another story.
Sometimes, people would jump in genuine surprise yet miss the prank entirely, earnestly asking if something was wrong.
In those cases, Wen Jiang’s face grew even more deadpan than usual. He’d breeze past it nonchalantly, inventing some topic on the spot to keep the conversation going.
In a way, it resembled telling a joke—though the two weren’t identical, since joke success rates were a debate unto themselves.
Xie Qi remembered the first time Wen Jiang pranked him: an ordinary gathering.
Their circle loved calling up friends—anyone could throw a party. Invites piled up from every corner, making it feel like daily revelry. Qian Lang selectively brought Wen Jiang along.
Xie Qi understood Qian Lang’s intentions: to elevate Wen Jiang socially while shielding him from harm and “contamination.” To balance those demands, he curated venues and company meticulously. Early on, Xie Qi thought Qian Lang fussed like Wen Jiang’s personal butler.
At the stage when Xie Qi and Wen Jiang were familiar but not yet close, Qian Lang played matchmaker, engineering moments. The three sat together; Qian Lang fetched drinks, leaving Xie Qi and Wen Jiang alone on the sofa.
Xie Qi had worn down much of his “iceberg heartthrob” or “untouchable flower” stereotypes by then, but as someone used to being waited on, he never bothered warming up the mood. Even knowing Qian Lang’s hopes, he wouldn’t start a conversation.
Wen Jiang rarely spoke either. They weren’t strangers, so the vibe wasn’t awkward—they could chat if prompted, but no one did. Wen Jiang had been playing a mobile game, then paused thoughtfully for two seconds. He pulled a bag of cookies from his backpack and asked flatly if Xie Qi wanted one.
…What a ripple-free overture.
The cookies looked plain in their bag, utterly unremarkable. They tasted cheap—baked yesterday at latest. Servants wouldn’t dare serve Xie Qi such things. Only Qingchi students outside the circle, ignorant of its rules, might share them in fits of “heartfelt pricelessness” naivety.
Xie Qi glanced at Wen Jiang, said nothing, and politely took one to be nice.
Then the devilish, freakishly spicy cookie hit him like a freight train—he choked and coughed violently.
As Xie Qi hacked away, Wen Jiang considerately handed him water. Once recovered, Xie Qi turned to glare—Wen Jiang was back to silently scrolling his phone, as if nothing happened.
“…”
Hard to pinpoint, but Xie Qi sensed the invisible vibe. Ghost-made, he played along perfectly: “Pretending nothing happened—what’s the point?”
Wen Jiang let out a soft, unmasked chuckle.
Wen Jiang tolerated spice and bitterness well but struggled with scalding heat. Once Xie Qi grew attuned to the subtle shifts in his unchanging face, he’d notice: gulp something too hot, and Wen Jiang’s gaze turned blankly wooden as he waited it out.
Once, while tea cooled to drinkable, Wen Jiang idly stacked oranges into a little tower at the table’s edge.
Cute, right? Xie Qi thought, reminiscing, a strange ache blooming in his chest.
Such details abounded. Over time—endlessly long, filling his life; fleetingly short, gone in a blink—they chipped away Xie Qi’s preconceptions, forging a new Wen Jiang unknown to most.
Wen Jiang never feared him.
Sometimes, even Xie Qi marveled at it.
That might explain their early clashes: Wen Jiang neither feared nor needed him. No sycophantic flattery with ulterior motives, no contrived resistance to seem superior. His attitude was… ordinary.
Reason him into admitting fault, and he’d apologize proactively. But tantrums or pettiness? Ignored, unyielding. No sulking back, no grudges—just no pandering for harmony. Xie Qi could stew all afternoon; Wen Jiang carried on calmly.
Through friction, Xie Qi learned “peaceful dialogue” and “perspective-taking”—willy-nilly.
Xie Qi knew Wen Jiang trusted him deeply.
Trusted his character: no fear he’d leverage their status gap post-argument. Trusted his safety: even after witnessing the Storm’s terror, never wary.
Overall a model student, yet Wen Jiang scrapped when needed, craved thrills, embraced extreme sports.
Wen Jiang was light.
For Combat System espers, humans were light anyway—but Xie Qi felt it personally now.
Jumping from the arts building’s third-floor window? Wen Jiang’s idea—impish shortcut, perhaps. Xie Qi recalled him leaning out, drawling lazily if he could catch him, like a sun-soaked cat.
Xie Qi blinked. “Yeah.”
Wen Jiang nodded, flung the window wide, vaulted out with a hand on the sill. High-altitude habitué Xie Qi still startled; he instinctively reached—as updraft surged, cradling Wen Jiang safely down.
Slow-motion replay: Xie Qi saw hair tips and hems flutter as he descended into his arms. But no full embrace—wind buffered him to land lightly beside, like a dragonfly skimming water.
Xie Qi’s hand ghosted Wen Jiang’s waist. Face impassive, yet a spark of glee shone through. “Better than a wire rig,” he quipped.
Xie Qi heard his heartbeat thunder.
From then, Wen Jiang seemed a butterfly, dancing lightly on the breeze.
Xie Qi struggled to chart his emotions like data—pinpoint no stark “turning point” where feelings soured into love. Qian Lang might be right: emotions defied logic from spark to fruition. By realization, separation terrified him.
Chest pain sharpened, lungs tightening with suffocation. Xie Qi frowned, unsure its source, and delved deeper. He recalled offering to help with Wen Jiang’s group project—loaded with ulterior motives.
As an actor, Wen Jiang’s poise was impeccable: skin snow-pale and cool. Spring-summer sun lent it translucent, warm jade sheen—vivid at his earlobes.
That day under the tree, light filtered through layered branches, whitening his lobes; dappling shadows swam his straight back like fish over silver sands. Xie Qi spied blue glow coalescing at Wen Jiang’s fingertips.
They were simulating the book-bound Supernatural Ability Causal Butterfly. Wen Jiang handled core: activation, observation, retrieval. Lin Wenzhi aided/corrected, tweaking “elements.”
No demands on subjects—forget it entirely. Xie Qi watched blue light form an oval orb, which Wen Jiang gently pushed into him—vanishing inside.
This trace should’ve been Xie Qi’s Secret Tower ticket.
Like a keepsake before parting: as long as it lingered, he could thrive there.
But plans derailed. Xie Qi got a “confession” from “Wen Jiang.”
The text: “Don’t leave me.”
At that, amid hazy reverie, Xie Qi snapped awake. Pain lanced from organs, through bones—heart pounding vividly, yet crushed under a hundred-ton hammer, or weighted by a thousand-jin plummet. He nearly vomited blood. Worse: deeper panic, bone-chilling dread.
He plummeted sharply. Facing harsh truth, only one thought: It’s over.
His romance with Wen Jiang was a mess—riddled with “hints” he’d ignored, convincing himself he didn’t care.
He’d made one “selfless” choice already, exhausting all restraint. That text night, clutching that spider silk, Xie Qi vowed never to let go. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be like Qian Lang, yielding his love to a future without him.
Desire had already taken root, like an iceberg floating on the ocean’s surface. Only after it burst forth from the earth did Xie Qi realize just how colossal it truly was.
Indifference didn’t matter. Avoidance didn’t matter. Even infidelity didn’t matter. He’d clearly considered giving up himself—clearly, it was Wen Jiang who’d come to him first! Even if the other man didn’t love him, he could forget about shaking him off. No matter what, he absolutely—
“Wrong.” Wen Jiang shook his head. His pupils reflected Xie Qi’s own pale, pleading face. There was no disgust in his eyes, really—beneath that serene lake-like calm, a flicker of sorrow for him even surfaced. But he said without hesitation, “We never dated in the first place.”
The beautiful dream shattered with a crackle. Xie Qi stared into the darkness, plummeting through it.
Before he’d sparked the uproar, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of anything at all.
He watched as his so-called “protection after the fact”—the kind he thought he could provide—morphed into an utterly unnecessary burden forced upon Wen Jiang. He watched all his past grievances, his every outburst of anger, his self-righteous “reasonable demands” bellowed amid feelings of injustice… In an instant, they all twisted into nothing more than his one-sided harassment of Wen Jiang, his shameless pestering.
It’s over.
He hurtled toward the center of Wen Jiang’s palm, his mind fixed on only one thought:
It’s over.
