Ji Yu—No. 13, discarded by Wen Tianlu—had been hiding in the dark room between Rooms 201 and 202 all along.
Just as he had estimated, when the banquet was halfway through, Wen Tianlu returned to the second-floor private room to rest. At the same time, the seductive gas produced by his Supernatural Ability Peach Fragrance kept flowing into Room 202 in small, repeated doses. As the people inside breathed and spoke, the gas silently entered their bodies, lying dormant as it awaited its eruption.
The only slight deviation was that, besides Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun, there was a third person in the room.
In the darkness, Ji Yu first heard a stranger’s complaint: “What the hell are you even doing?”
Something was tossed impatiently onto the table with a sharp clink—a USB drive with a metal casing hitting the glass surface. Then came the voice Ji Yu knew all too well: Wen Tianlu chuckled and said, “You should be asking Lin Xun. He’s the one who wants to watch it.”
“Let me watch it first.” Lin Xun’s voice rang out. The USB was plugged into the port, and the room’s smart TV synced and powered on, followed by a long stretch of silence.
How long it took for the wave of lust induced by Peach Fragrance to take effect depended on the dosage, exposure time, personal constitution, the gap in Supernatural Ability ranks, and Ji Yu’s own control. If the people opposite were just C-Grade or D-Grade ability users, he could confidently detonate the lust surge in multiple targets at once right now. But against Wen Tianlu, he had no such confidence.
He only had one shot. Ideally, the unrelated people would leave later, leaving just Wen Tianlu alone in the room. Unless absolutely necessary, Ji Yu didn’t dare to gamble. He listened carefully to the sounds outside, but as the silence dragged on, he couldn’t help feeling doubtful and anxious.
Before he could endure it any longer, the first voice spoke up again, sounding far more displeased than him: “You done yet? How many times do you need to watch him act?”
…“Act”?
“Mm,” Lin Xun responded perfunctorily, “Hold on, one more time.”
…Were they watching some kind of silent film? A mime? Ji Yu speculated, then realized the one actively rewatching the footage—and seeming to take it very seriously—was Lin Xun. A flicker of surprise stirred in his heart.
Lin Xun was one of Wen Tianlu’s few friends. Wen Tianlu was arrogant to his core, and Ji Yu knew full well that earning even a glance of approval from him required far more than just being “a cut above average.” Ji Yu himself struggled just to brush against the upper echelons, while the core circle Lin Xun belonged to was a whole level above the rest of the elite.
Take Lin Xun: Ji Yu knew three things about him that far exceeded the norm. First, his background as the sole heir to the entertainment giant Lin Family. Second, his Super A-Grade Supernatural Ability Forbidden Fruit. Third, his extreme sensitivity to detecting ability activations.
These three traits catalyzed a cascade of implications in Lin Xun. Ji Yu had heard people joke that an actor or star could hook Lin Xun with their looks, figure, personality, or niche hobbies—but never their acting, because he’d easily “break immersion” from the heavy traces of ability activation.
It was a hard concept to grasp, but Lin Xun truly lacked interest in most performing arts and film products—Ji Yu could tell.
And right now, in Room 202, Lin Xun held the remote, repeatedly playing the same clip from Qingchi’s A-Rank Training Field.
The footage started with an overhead view: the two combatants stood in the center of the field. One had tensed muscles with iron orbs floating around him; the other was nonchalant, effortlessly dodging every attack, turning the fight into one-sided teasing.
After the teaser—Jiang Hehu in the video—savagely kicked an iron orb toward the stands, the camera angle switched abruptly to a frontal shot. The frame followed the orb as it zoomed in rapidly, focusing on the work area beside the stands.
A flash of blue-green protective film, then the orb hit the ground. Dead center in the frame appeared a face completely obscured by a workbook. Seconds later, the book was removed, revealing a pale face framed by black-rimmed glasses, expression remarkably calm.
Jiang Hehu got annoyed just seeing this, especially with Lin Xun rewinding nonstop. After watching yet again as Wen Jiang flipped him onto the desk and humiliatingly yanked his hair, a vein throbbed at Jiang Hehu’s temple. He couldn’t hold back: “Are you ever gonna stop? Lin Xun, you look like you’ve got some serious issues right now.”
Wen Tianlu nodded candidly: “Yeah, kinda.”
Lin Xun’s focus had clearly been on Wen Jiang the whole time. With this obsessive replay—oh, and he’d even zoom in on Wen Jiang’s face—it really looked pervy from an outsider’s view.
Wen Tianlu’s patience was wearing thin too, but he watched quietly. His earlier curiosity about “why Lin Xun cared so much about Wen Jiang” was starting to make sense, and he found it oddly amusing. Glancing sidelong at Lin Xun, he asked: “Can’t you tell if Wen Jiang used his ability?”
Judging by Lin Xun’s reactions, it almost seemed like he was just admiring Wen Jiang’s face—and he did favor that type. But based on what Wen Tianlu knew of Lin Xun, this went beyond appreciating a pretty face. They both loved to play, but getting this serious over looks alone would be downright stupid.
An interesting point: people’s judgments on appearances varied, but everyone agreed Supernatural Abilities were innate, inseparable talents—core parts of one’s acknowledged strength. Revealing that someone’s infatuation stemmed from Drama Stage would only earn Wen Jiang more admiration and praise.
That was why, at the start of term at Qingchi, many Combat System students had secretly looked down on Wen Jiang—until they watched a performance and their attitudes flipped.
Even for Lifestyle System data types like the legendary S-Grade Super Brain, or medical ones like Sacred Hand, revealing them would earn respect. But Wen Jiang’s was performance-based. Just imagining Drama Stage, people might think it at best made him act faster and better—maybe with built-in sound and lighting. Ultimately, it was an ability to entertain others.
Especially for students born at the pyramid’s peak, Lifestyle System users were everywhere. A-Grades had served them in every aspect since childhood, making such arrogance feel natural.
But above A-Grade was Super A, with a chasm between scarce Super As and rarer S-Grades. Most had shallow ideas about S-Grades’ true power—until Wen Jiang activated his, and they realized they had zero resistance to Drama Stage.
…Even I get completely misjudged sometimes, Wen Tianlu thought leisurely.
As for those Wen Tianlu knew who stood out from weak normals—Xie Qi and Qian Lang understood Wen Jiang best and seemed to genuinely like him; Jiang Hehu had a history of losing a fight to him. He clearly resented it but wouldn’t accuse Wen Jiang of cheap tricks or loopholes, because no lower-rank performance ability or stealthy Combat System power could create the opening that dazed him.
Strip away the Qingchi Theater performance he couldn’t relate to, and others at least had “off-stage” reasons to notice Wen Jiang. Lin Xun, with the least interaction, had none.
“Can’t tell.” Lin Xun rubbed his eyes, his face unusually blank—unclear if he was happy or not about the result. After a brief silence, he slowly corrected himself: “Not that I didn’t know he was acting. I just couldn’t feel it. If I did, it was extremely faint and vague. I couldn’t confirm it.”
Wen Tianlu and Jiang Hehu exchanged a glance. Wen Tianlu raised a brow: “Fainter than Qian Lang’s ability?”
“Fainter.” Lin Xun said firmly, defending himself: “I can clearly detect Qian Lang’s most of the time, okay?”
If it was surprising? Absolutely… Qian Lang was one of the few with highly “concealed” abilities. His bracelet used cutting-edge detection tech partly to counter chaotic misfires he couldn’t verify himself. Besides Lin Xun matching him at detection, no one else could sense Absolute Trust promptly.
But Wen Jiang was a proper S-Grade. Lifestyle Systems excelled at silent activations anyway—though admitting it grated. Jiang Hehu was briefly shocked, then shrugged it off, unable to relate to Lin Xun’s mindset.
Lin Xun glanced at Jiang Hehu, then at the smiling but clearly uninterested Wen Tianlu. He threw his hands behind his neck, leaned back on the sofa, and griped: “Tch, I told you guys wouldn’t get it.”
“Don’t rush.” Wen Tianlu said, “At least we’re happy to hear you out.”
Jiang Hehu rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
The three of them—plus Qian Lang and Xie Qi—had known each other forever, knew each other’s dirt. Superficial? Tons of superficial friendships in the mix. But the understanding was real, or they wouldn’t be this close.
“Fine, I’ll spill.” Lin Xun was used to it. He’d been bottling this up forever, replaying Wen Jiang’s performance in his mind countless times. Seizing the opening, he sat up and launched into his analysis: “Wen Jiang’s ability report mentions his power has high synergy and high concealment. The concealment test scored S…”
Hold up.
“Hm?” Wen Tianlu cut him off right away, smile not reaching his eyes: “How do you know his ability traits?”
You’re from Yanhai No.1 Middle School, right? How’d you get Qingchi students’ ability reports?
Jiang Hehu bluntly added: “You’re coming off like a total stalker.”
“…Doesn’t matter.” As long as I’m not embarrassed, it’s them who are. Lin Xun forced the topic back: “Take this clip. Wen Jiang first activated his ability on this guy.”
Lin Xun paused on Wen Jiang removing the workbook, revealing Gao Mingcheng’s face.
Gao Mingcheng had pissed off Jiang Hehu before, but as a formal Student Council member, Wen Tianlu and Jiang Hehu had privately asked him to “go easy.” So Jiang Hehu’s “retribution” shifted from a clean one-shot to prolonged mental terror.
When Jiang Hehu took the training platform and spotted Wen Jiang next to Gao Mingcheng—who could protect his safety—he decided to kick the iron orb at his face.
He never meant to kill Gao Mingcheng. Targeting his cowardice as a final send-off, he planned to capture the guy freaking out, maybe pissing himself on camera. What others thought—mockery, pity, or indifference; whether Gao Mingcheng cracked under pressure—wasn’t his problem.
Clearly, the plan flopped. In the video, Gao Mingcheng stayed emotionally stable, showing nothing amusing.
Wen Jiang seemed to guess Jiang Hehu’s real intent—and that cameras would live-stream his face. Lin Xun analyzed: “This guy’s reaction? One, Wen Jiang blocked his view first, so he didn’t see the orb coming at his face. Two, maybe Wen Jiang used his ability to make him act calm.”
“Especially after this, when Old Jiang threatened him, right?” Lin Xun fast-forwarded. After setting down the workbook, Wen Jiang patted Gao Mingcheng’s shoulder. Then Jiang Hehu approached; the frame froze on him asking Gao Mingcheng, “Will you forgive me?”
If the first fail was blocked sight, this was Gao Mingcheng’s second jolt.
No audio, but Jiang Hehu remembered Gao Mingcheng replying “No problem” in a goddamn pleasant tone.
He’d always known how easy Gao Mingcheng was to scare—his panicked expressions hilarious, voice cracking. To others, it might look normal, but to him, it was like possession. So he’d instantly pegged Wen Jiang as faking it for him.
“…But I couldn’t feel it,” Lin Xun murmured. “Just the faintest, blurriest trace of ability.”
