Lin Xun’s words were met with silence.
Wen Tianlu and Jiang Hehu couldn’t relate. Compared to the personality flaws others might have to varying degrees, Lin Xun’s hang-ups about Supernatural Ability perception had always been somewhat abstract.
It was only natural for actors to use their Performance-Type Abilities when acting. The Lifestyle System didn’t deliberately distinguish between abilities and skills either—especially in fields like singing, dancing, performance, painting, and sculpture.
Honing acting skills with a Performance-Type Ability also tempered the ability itself. Improving the ability naturally refined the acting. This was common knowledge even among Combat System students. With a slight shift in perspective, they never separated a person’s “combat power” from their “Supernatural Ability” in discussion.
Lin Xun clearly understood this, yet he insisted on layering a “trace” concept on top, demanding a realm where “I know you’re acting, but you can’t make me feel like you’re acting.”
His own Supernatural Ability perception was monstrously sharp, too. Many high-scoring films and shows earned vague “too many Supernatural Ability traces” low ratings from him. Some had even tried workarounds, forbidding all cast members from using abilities and making them wear Suppressors collectively—like weighted training. When the final product reached Lin Xun, he cursed them out bloody: “You waste my time just to show me this pile of shit?”
Admittedly, this outcome relieved many in the Lin Family. At least it proved Lin Xun’s tastes were still normal… just pursuing some higher level others couldn’t see.
Lin Xun had long given up explaining his discomfort in detail. Setting aside traces, his insights were often sharp-eyed and incisive. His offhand suggestions usually worked. Ji Yu had never seen Lin Xun in action on his home turf, but occasionally, from the sidelines, he could tell Lin Xun wasn’t some real wastrel who did nothing but eat, drink, and play all day. The industry’s fawning over him wasn’t just because of his background.
It was routine for others to listen silently to him speak. Lin Xun pressed on regardless: “Then the second activation—doesn’t it look like it started from when he was hitting you?”
Jiang Hehu’s face was cold. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Then tough it out.” Lin Xun mercilessly dragged the progress bar, pausing at the moment Jiang Hehu turned to talk to Wen Jiang.
He zoomed in on the scene. In the frame, Wen Jiang’s arm rested against the chair back. He smiled and said something, like gold dust scattered into the other’s eyes, tinting those ink-black pupils with a faint glow. Lin Xun paused for two seconds: “What did he say to you? ‘I forgive you too’?”
Jiang Hehu’s expression soured further. “If you can read it, don’t ask.”
Lin Xun nodded in understanding and voiced his inference: “Then I think he was probably using his ability right then—just at very low power.”
“This performance here already feels a bit like Seri’s Golden Lakeside, doesn’t it?”
He precisely named a play starring Wen Jiang that he’d only seen once at Qingchi Theater. Lin Xun stared at the screen, hand propping his chin, tone serious: “Wen Jiang’s usual personality is worlds apart from Yusser’s in Golden Lakeside. A sudden shift in behavior raises the risk of breaking immersion for the audience.”
Of course, this fell under “polishing for perfection.” It wasn’t mandatory. Everyone knew Wen Jiang was an icy poker face offstage, after all—it didn’t affect his success onstage one bit.
Lin Xun added: “He could’ve just straight-up played Yusser, and Old Jiang still wouldn’t have clocked it. But a lot of the time, Wen Jiang’s ability can be seen as a mini-theater performance.”
“That smile at you back then? Could’ve been genuine emotion, or setup for later—like the opening of a stage play, or the overture.”
If I’d been there watching up close, would I have been able to tell which one it was?
Lin Xun fell silent for a few seconds, then continued: “Drama is a whole package. It builds through foreshadowing so the climax hits harder. By leaking some traits like Golden Lakeside‘s protagonist ahead of time, the audience sinks deeper into the higher-intensity performance later, subconsciously.”
“But the trace of ability activation I sense here is fuzzy too. Can’t confirm it. If I knew him better…” If I knew Wen Jiang better, maybe I could guess if he was just teasing Jiang Hehu or deliberately weaving in Yusser’s traits. Lin Xun mumbled, his voice trailing off into pure self-talk.
He pondered darkly for a bit longer. Finally, in the weird silence, he noticed the other two staring at him. His train of thought snapped: “What’re you looking at?”
“…”
All of Wen Jiang’s plays banned filming or recordings—only live viewing allowed. Qingchi students had the home advantage: forum threads galore, Drama Club posters everywhere. It was normal for them to remember every role he’d played. Ji Yu remembered them too, sure—but Lin Xun, an outsider from another school? Knew a bit too much, didn’t he?
“Boring.” Jiang Hehu stood from the sofa with a disinterested face, looking down at them: “Forced me to haul this video over with so much effort, and this is what for? To listen to you ramble?”
“If you’re so curious, just gift Wen Jiang a Detection Ring.” Wen Tianlu helpfully suggested to Lin Xun. He recalled Wen Jiang’s wristband and suddenly realized: “You can check his power level right now, actually. The Suppressor he’s wearing is the same model as Xie Qi’s.”
“Ugh, I told you—you guys don’t get it.” Lin Xun shot back irritably. Was the point whether Wen Jiang used his ability? No—the point was he hadn’t felt it!
These guys couldn’t grasp how Supernatural Ability traces were everywhere—like “air” in this room. What that felt like.
Plain and simple: it was annoying. Really annoying. Especially watching someone act. It was like a sign held up constantly: “They’re using an ability right now!” An unremovable face-obscuring barrage, a movie theater where everyone front, back, left, right was yelling.
But Wen Jiang’s performances had none of that. The only S-Grade Performance-Type he knew, naturally displaying higher talent than any group of A-Rank film stars. The traces were so faint—sometimes gone, sometimes barely there. Lin Xun could ignore it entirely and enjoy the show like anyone else, or let those faint, exquisite threads snag him—like a feather’s brush. In probing it, he found unique pleasure.
It was a wondrous feeling. And hey, Wen Jiang was his age. Barring accidents, in the years ahead, he’d keep delivering this fresh, vibrant experience like covering his lifespan—endlessly. A word for it? Wen Jiang was like a muse inspiring an artist—
—Ugh, that’s creepy. Lin Xun felt subtly grossed out by his own thought and shut down the inner emotional torrent.
Whatever. Not that big a deal. Life was happy enough before meeting Wen Jiang. Others not getting it? Fine.
Lost in scattered thoughts, Lin Xun felt some relief at finally airing what he wanted. Seeing Jiang Hehu about to leave, he casually added: “Hey, copy the video for me before you go.”
Jiang Hehu: …
Wen Tianlu: …
“Pfft, haha!” Wen Tianlu doubled over, collapsing back onto the sofa laughing.
Jiang Hehu’s expression was naked disgust. He warned sincerely: “Lin Xun, I suggest you reflect on how pathetic you look right now.”
Lin Xun: …
“Ah, I get it?” Wen Tianlu laughed for ages, eyes crinkling as he chimed in: “You don’t get to see him much usually. Lin Xun probably wants more footage of his prospective boyfriend’s school antics.”
…Prospective what? Boyfriend?
Jiang Hehu’s ear tips twitched. Lightning-fast, he realized who “prospective boyfriend” referred to—and bristled like a cat with its tail stepped on: “Ha?! Gross much? You know him that well?!”
Lin Xun choked, indignant: “How’s it gross? I at least got a confession text from him.”
Though it had Qian Lang’s ability on it—definitely not voluntary, he added silently.
“I got one too. So Hehu, copy the video for me later?” Wen Tianlu drawled, glancing subtly at the wall behind the sofa. He chuckled lightly: “I’ll collect some highlights from our ‘shared prospective boyfriend.'”
Wen Tianlu’s voice was low, carrying an innate refined warmth. “Boyfriend” from his lips inexplicably gained a tender intimacy. Eavesdropping Ji Yu blanked out for a moment. Snapping back, he clenched his fingers, the back of his neck still ghosting with a digital brand—ethereal heat.
Hearing this, the young master Jiang in the room calmed instead. He sneered mockingly: “Then it’s obviously fake.”
Wen Tianlu shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
He’d never believed it from the start.
Lin Xun was nonchalant too: “Guessed as much ages ago.”
He was sensitive to ability activations. Qian Lang’s ability, in stealth alone, was Super A-Grade level. On hiding and detecting traces, Lin Xun and Qian Lang were in a subtle rivalry. The text mishap was Lin Xun’s small win—he’d sensed Qian Lang’s ability the instant he got it.
Though he had zero clue why.
The most boring answer was probably just a mix-up… But sensing Qian Lang’s ability didn’t dispel it. The wrongfully sent text was like bait in a trap, with a big red warning sign beside it. Tug-of-war: Tempting… but warned. What if the warning’s fake? Nah, impossible.
Still tempting. Who knew how much Qian Lang’s ability amplified that.
Wen Tianlu’s was probably the same. Jiang Hehu seemed to get weird messages too. Oh, and Xie Qi… Sent to everyone around? Yet no one found it suspicious? Or sensed it but ignored? Qian Lang’s ability was as troublesome as ever.
Lin Xun stayed poker-faced. Scoundrel buddies stabbing each other in the back? On full display—he wasn’t telling them Wen Jiang’s text might have Qian Lang’s ability.
“…You two wanna toy with him?” Jiang Hehu narrowed his eyes, scanning them one by one. He scoffed lazily: “Then I wish you success.”
Irritation bubbled in Jiang Hehu. He recalled Wen Jiang glued to Xie Qi all day, their outfits even matching. A vicious smile twisted his lips: “You two wouldn’t actually be shared spare tires, would you?”
Wen Tianlu lowered his gaze, neither denying nor confirming. After a beat, he smiled softly: “Xie Qi might not be the best choice either.”
For Wen Tianlu, who had keen interest in wedging into certain relationships, “spare tire” talk was no sting. He could’ve shot back “That makes it more interesting.” But he knew past nonchalance stemmed from assured victory—from the crystalline shatter of old bonds. Did he have that magnetic pull on Wen Jiang? Wen Tianlu wasn’t deluded about the answer.
Wen Jiang hadn’t seen old Xie Qi’s brutality either. Xie Qi was just “restrained” now, not “changed.” And Xie Qi’s parents—they never shied from drilling their open sexual views into him.
Wen Tianlu knew his own… partially twisted tastes traced back to family influence. Xie Qi was the opposite: playboy parents raised a non-player kid. But was that true? Wen Tianlu reserved judgment.
Original families were shadows that clung. Kids always carried parental echoes in their bones. He didn’t believe Xie Qi was exempt.
If Xie Qi ever tasted the thrill and morphed into a player trying every trick, ditching “loyalty” and “norms” outsiders expected—Wen Tianlu would laugh hardest, and be least surprised. Hadn’t Xie Qi’s mom gifted him that “birthday present” without it being destroyed?
“Prospective boyfriend sounds nicer.” Wen Tianlu drawled, asking Jiang Hehu—who had lingered chatting with them a bit longer—”You leaving already? Not staying to rest a while?”
“No interest. Boring anywhere.” Jiang Hehu replied coldly. Before walking out, he suddenly remembered something and added, “Oh, right—next time you call people over, can you clean up the bugs in your house first?”
…What did that mean? In the pitch-black dark room, Ji Yu had finally waited for the outsiders to clear out, but his heart clenched tight.
“Finally clearing it out?” Lin Xun let out a long breath, urging Wen Tianlu with clear impatience. “Had enough fun? What was that guy’s name again? Can’t you just ventilate or something to wipe away all these messy traces?”
He’s talking about me! Cold sweat broke out across Ji Yu’s back in a rush. He instantly activated his Supernatural Ability while shoving backward against the dark door leading to Room 201. A muffled “Bang!” rang out in the dark room.
It wouldn’t open!
Out of Ji Yu’s sight, in Room 201, a thick layer of ice crystals had at some point blanketed the dark door’s entrance, filling every crevice and sealing off his escape route.
Meanwhile, Room 202—saturated with aphrodisiac gas—stayed utterly still, just as it should have. The people inside lounged in idle comfort, utterly unperturbed. Wen Tianlu’s voice drifted over, sounding like it came from right behind Ji Yu one moment and through the door panel the next: “But I think this is pretty interesting.”
Explode, crash, explode! Ji Yu’s mind blanked out. Sweat soaked through his shirt as he mechanically repeated his actions. Hiding the noise no longer mattered; he switched to slamming his shoulder into the dark door, producing several heavy thuds. Then he clawed at the door seams with his nails. His whole body went rigid and ice-cold under the nauseating weight of the pressure. Amid the pain of the impacts and his rising panic, Ji Yu’s eyes caught a wisp of white vapor materializing right in front of him.
…It was his own breath fogging out.
In that instant, Ji Yu finally clocked it—a beat too late. The chill wasn’t just his nerves. The temperature in the entire dark room was plunging on an objective level, turning the space into a pitch-black, frozen coffin that heralded death.
“Don’t come out now, and you won’t need to ever. Three seconds,” the cold deepened. Wen Tianlu counted down at a leisurely pace, his voice—as always—gentle as Ji Yu heard it: “Get out.”
