Wen Jiang remembered very few of the “upper echelon” names.
If he viewed Qingchi’s upper social circle as a whole, he had originally been on the outside, then leaped straight into the tiniest circle at the very center—like dropping from the foot of the mountain onto the tip of the tower at the peak. Most people on the mountain paths in between had never even caught a glimpse of him.
Many in that circle had considered getting to know Wen Jiang. At first, they weighed the value of this S-Grade commoner suddenly brought by Qian Lang, unconcerned about stacking gifts on his desk before reaching any conclusions.
The gifts didn’t appear out of nowhere in the morning; some were delivered by housekeepers or servants, others tossed into Wen Jiang’s arms with a casual “Hey” as they passed by. He rarely saw their faces, and there was hardly ever a way to return the items, so he soon gave up on conventional gift-handling methods.
Qian Lang had his own gripes about it, though his line of thinking diverged sharply from Wen Jiang’s. Wen Jiang had overheard him muttering, “They’ve got some nerve sending this crap.”
Once Wen Jiang and Xie Qi grew somewhat familiar, he quickly realized Xie Qi’s mindset aligned more with Qian Lang’s. Xie Qi had seen Wen Jiang’s desk buried under gifts two or three times. The last time, out of kindness, he used his Supernatural Ability to dump the whole pile of exquisitely wrapped presents into the trash bin.
“Your Supernatural Ability is acting?”
For Xie Qi at the time, voluntarily speaking more than a couple words to Wen Jiang was already rare enough. The gift boxes cascaded from the air with a clatter, piling into a small mountain in the bin. Square boxes rolled down the slope and landed by Xie Qi’s feet; he stomped one flat and kicked it back into the trash. Wen Jiang glimpsed something shiny—a piece of jewelry—peeking out.
Xie Qi didn’t even bother glancing at it. He reminded Wen Jiang lazily, “If you don’t want them, just act the part better next time.”
Amid the idle gossip of his aloof, self-possessed, prideful demeanor, Wen Jiang stood ramrod straight, his expression indifferent. He shifted his gaze from the pile of expensive trash as if it were beneath notice.
That was the classic aloof beauty type. They clearly lacked the leverage to treat this overture game as humiliation, yet resentment, disdain, and reluctance still bubbled up. Some people craved compliant sweethearts; others preferred ones with thorns, with chill—because the conquest felt more rewarding.
Wen Jiang stressed to Xie Qi, “Can’t act too well.”
“I have limits too.” It was odd for an actor to keep saying he couldn’t perform too convincingly, so Wen Jiang said no more. As he passed Xie Qi, he tossed out, “If you’re interested, come watch.”
Xie Qi caught sight of the ring Wen Jiang almost never removed, out of the corner of his eye.
Three days later, Wen Jiang made his debut at Qingchi Theater. The prince sheathed his bloodied longsword and stepped carelessly over the gem-encrusted crown on the ground. He placed his black glove over his chest and elegantly took a final bow toward the audience below.
The lights dimmed, the curtain fell. The theater fell into utter silence at first, then ripples of sharp intakes of breath rose like waves. People looked at each other as if waking from a dream. The murmurs in the seats grew louder, more numerous, until they shattered the roof, spilled out the windows. The entire theater erupted in massive cheers, applause like thunder.
Xie Qi accompanied Qian Lang backstage. The protagonist from the story—burdened by a sea of blood feud, methodically slaying his enemies—had sheathed his lethal edge. With a deadpan face, he endured Qian Lang’s tearful rubbing and praise. Compared to his stark, dominant stage presence, he now seemed almost languid and soft.
Wen Jiang spotted Xie Qi and picked up their conversation. “Could act even better.”
Then he pivoted. “But not for you guys to see.”
“…”
Xie Qi himself wasn’t allowed to go all-out in the Training Field either.
The Lifestyle System held a subtle status in people’s minds. Even as an S-Grade, it was hard to measure with the same eyes. But Wen Jiang had used the performance to remind everyone of his top-tier aptitude.
…Was that really it?
That faint premonition from overhearing talks of “oil pens” and “water pens” suddenly welled up again. On impulse, Xie Qi snarked, “That’s basically the same as nothing.”
“There is.” Wen Jiang said, satisfied. “You’ll see it once you get used to it.”
Their side stayed lighthearted. Under another system’s judgment—consistent with what Xie Qi had said—random gifting plummeted after that day, dropping to a level Qian Lang found satisfactory.
Out of Wen Jiang’s sight, the circle operated by its usual rules. High-rankers dictated low-rankers’ access. They ought to play games of different scales, feast on prey of varying grades. Naturally, most of those previous people lost their “qualification” to chat or befriend Wen Jiang.
Occasional gifts still trickled in afterward. Qian Lang would opine first; later, Xie Qi joined in. Wen Jiang would prop his chin and watch them judge, then nod approval at whatever they decided.
He could see his friends’ concerns. If a gift was “inappropriate,” Xie Qi wouldn’t comment outwardly, but the sender never appeared again. Qian Lang was chattier, always nagging Wen Jiang with advice—but he didn’t always find the right words.
Wen Jiang once got a gift box with a fancy card. Xie Qi was there; he glanced at the sender’s name, sneered coldly, swiped the gift, and left the classroom. Moments later, a series of heavy thuds echoed from upstairs, like objects slamming into walls. Qian Lang and Wen Jiang both looked up at the ceiling, then away, pretending nothing happened.
Qian Lang, per habit, wanted to say something to Wen Jiang, but his face twisted in annoyance. He hemmed and hawed, finally mumbling, “Too playful. Not great.”
Wen Jiang knew Qian Lang was forcing it.
He and Xie Qi—even if they didn’t partake themselves—couldn’t judge the playful with disdain. If they scrutinized that, others could sling the same insult at many of their friends, even distant relatives. It’d be masochistic. Their upbringing hadn’t instilled that moral ground anyway.
They surely believed most people in the world had no right to demand it of them.
It was just that their friends lived in a different world, with no intent to assimilate, so Qian Lang and Xie Qi filtered out those who felt overly excessive. Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun didn’t even make the cut—their tastes were picky too.
“No need to say that stuff.” When Xie Qi returned empty-handed, he saw Wen Jiang reach out and pat Qian Lang’s head, offering out-of-the-blue comfort: “You tried hard.”
Xie Qi: ?
What? One guy sat in the classroom the whole time, the other went out specially—who was trying hard?
“Huh?” Qian Lang’s eyes widened; he rarely faced such “insolence.” Wen Jiang recalled Qian Lang often bantering equally with others, but no one had ever “returned” the favor like this.
After Wen Jiang pulled away, Qian Lang touched his own hair, then yelped “Ow!” He shot up and ruffled Wen Jiang’s hair wildly, yelling, “Ow, this feels so weird! Not used to it!”
Is this part of the friendship tax? Wen Jiang accepted the assault expressionlessly.
He lifted his eyelids and saw Xie Qi staring from the doorway, his expression indescribably odd. Wen Jiang simply raised a hand toward him too.
Xie Qi looked away, rubbed his neck, dragged his gaze back slowly, then leaned in and ducked his head. Wen Jiang’s hand landed perfectly on his soft hair.
“…Too childish,” he grumbled. Once Wen Jiang withdrew, he straightened up.
Over months, Wen Jiang clearly felt Qingchi’s other set of standards. Under it, good and bad, high and low had new definitions. Gifts were one thing; others followed suit.
He’d once walked in on someone from another school kneeling by Wen Tianlu’s feet in the A-Rank Arena bathroom. Wen Tianlu spotted him and greeted with a smile.
The kneeler’s legs were pressed together, head bowed, exposing a stretch of pale neck. Wen Jiang easily spotted the number tattooed there.
So that’s what “Number Thirteen, Number Seventeen” meant. Wen Jiang wasn’t surprised.
The room’s “natural breeze” had stopped unnoticed. Wen Jiang lightly touched the silver chain at his chest and pushed the door open. Xie Qi had just hung up a call. He noticed the outside was eerily quiet—no staff in sight. A glance at Xie Qi’s face told him the guy was pissed.
This was a common sight. Xie Qi’s default modes were “fierce” or “icy.” If Wen Jiang categorized, he could subdivide into “long-term anger,” “short-term anger,” and “ultra-brief flickers.”
As he and Xie Qi grew closer, the first type vanished almost entirely. Hearing the door, Xie Qi’s expression softened. He turned, eyes still holding faint embers. Spotting Wen Jiang, he froze; the sparks died, and he went fully docile.
The now-common “one-second extinguish” anger. Wen Jiang got it. He took a few steps past Xie Qi, noticed he wasn’t following, and turned back. “Coming?”
“Yeah.” Xie Qi fell in beside him, stared for a bit, then looked ahead and said, “Suits you.”
With Qian Lang gone, Xie Qi’s compliments rose subtly in frequency, like he’d studied Qian Lang’s encouraging style. Touched, Wen Jiang returned one: “Thanks to you.”
Their outfits shared a black base but differed in accessory details—elements mirroring each other to highlight their traits without looking matchy. Together, they harmonized perfectly, obvious partners, every bit screaming the stylists’ efforts.
They even wore matching Suppressors.
The styling was killer; the rest depended on the wearers. Just in case, Wen Jiang had set Xie Qi’s number as his phone’s speed dial last night for quick contact.
Soon, after watching the engagement toasts, it’d be their dance chemistry test. No prior rehearsal— that’d be “cheating” in practicals, since real dances often paired strangers.
Wen Jiang extended his right hand to Xie Qi, softening his gaze with a gentle smile. Xie Qi’s ear tips flushed red as he placed his hand in Wen Jiang’s palm.
Wen Jiang: …….
“My phone,” Wen Jiang said.
Xie Qi: …….
“Oh.” Xie Qi replied flatly, calm and poised like high society. He curled his fingers to grip Wen Jiang’s hand instead, passing the phone with his other.
No issue—at least our improv’s solid. Xie Qi pulled Wen Jiang into the car. Problem solved.
They weren’t far from the hotel. With the car’s performance and driver’s skill, they arrived quickly. Bohr Hotel boasted an inner courtyard and greenhouse; outside, lawns stretched wide. Though dusk hadn’t fallen, the two rings of tall lamps glowed fully, making the central building gleam like a jewel. Through the window, Wen Jiang clearly saw clusters chatting on the grass and second-floor balcony.
Every gaze across the way locked on them—not him, but the Xie Family car carrying their sole heir, Xie Qi.
Xie Qi seemed uninterested at first, but boredom shifted to faint amusement. His index finger tapped a button by his side. The driver, about to exit first and open the rear door, halted silently and sat back.
“I’ll get your door?” Xie Qi turned to suggest to Wen Jiang, still sounding like a bossy lord. His eyes flicked to the Inhibitor Bracelet. Bluntly: “Power at what level?”
Making a splash entrance, huh? Wen Jiang instantly synced with Xie Qi’s thinking. The Wen-Xie duo was built for big stages—chemistry kicked in at clutch moments.
The black Suppressor monitored fully controlled power levels beyond anomalies. Wen Jiang reined in his Supernatural Ability for public shows but had tested 60% alone in the empty theater.
Qingchi students couldn’t handle that performance yet. Seeing it would deepen their cravings, ruining immersion in the current act.
Being too flashy wasn’t suitable, but his role this time wasn’t some disposable accessory that just anyone could play. He needed to burn the fact that Xie Qi had a dance partner straight into everyone’s heads. Wen Jiang fiddled with his bracelet and said, “Then twenty it is.”
