Lin Xun’s task was highly tempting.
He had indeed come prepared. Simply put, Lin Xun wanted Wen Jiang to impersonate him, standing in as “Lin Xun” for a day.
All to get out of a gathering he had no interest in attending.
The event wasn’t large-scale, and Wen Jiang wouldn’t need to stand out. He just had to act like a guest being entertained. As for issues like appearance, build, or voice, Lin Xun would have someone apply a cognitive interference supernatural ability. As long as Wen Jiang avoided major slip-ups or actions too out-of-character for Lin Xun, no one would notice that the “Lin Xun” in front of them wasn’t the real deal.
It was a challenging proposition. Cognitive interference differed from hypnosis or brainwashing—its effects were relatively fragile, turning it into an invisible litmus test. Others’ trust in Wen Jiang’s identity would hinge heavily on his own performance.
This might even involve psychological observation games and on-the-spot judgments. After hearing the rundown, Wen Jiang realized that rather than playing the “real” Lin Xun, the key was to embody the version of Lin Xun that existed in the minds of the other attendees.
Truth be told, the task suited Wen Jiang’s tastes perfectly—perfectly enough that he could spot Lin Xun’s little scheme behind it.
It wasn’t as if Lin Xun truly had an unavoidable gathering he dreaded, happened to think of Wen Jiang, and decided to ask for help. No, he was the reason the whole thing existed in the first place—tailor-made into a task Wen Jiang could hardly refuse.
They hadn’t spoken much before, yet Lin Xun had nailed his interests so precisely. The fresh meat laid out in a trap, Wen Jiang thought with a sigh, that’s probably what they call it.
Meanwhile, Lin Xun felt like he was passively experiencing a “commoner interviewing for a job.”
He had watched employee interviews before and even participated in casting for projects. Interviewers were usually stern-faced, unflappable. Most candidates’ tension and awkwardness were plain as day, waiting for results like facing judgment. Lin Xun sat in the corner wearing a pair of non-prescription glasses, rarely speaking, but exuding an air of casual comfort.
He never hid his special status. About a month ago, a boy with milky-white skin and a cute face kept stealing glances at Lin Xun while answering questions. It happened too often, so Lin Xun grinned, waved at him, and silently mouthed “hi.” The boy’s eyes lit up with delight, his cheeks flushing pink, his tone turning bubbly.
Cute, Lin Xun thought. Like some dainty pet that can only survive by clinging to its owner.
Lin Xun smiled and gave him a failing grade.
What others saw as a life-changing event was just a whim, a way for Lin Xun to kill time. Gazing down from on high, any approval became “grace.” Lin Xun would never sit on the other side of the table, never understand that perspective.
Yet now, Lin Xun felt his face stiffening from smiling.
His mouth was parched, a glass of lemon water right beside him, but it felt impossibly distant.
The “head examiner,” Wen Jiang, was subjecting him to an excruciatingly drawn-out review. The last time Wen Jiang spoke was when Lin Xun, mid-sentence, reached for the lemon water out of thirst. “Done?” Wen Jiang asked abruptly.
Lin Xun paused, resignedly pulled his hand back, and continued.
From the gathering’s scale and location to the participants, feasibility, contingency plans, precautions, and safety guarantees—Wen Jiang listened with a cold expression, offering no reaction after the full rundown. Classic “we’ll let you know.” Then he pivoted: “The hotel.”
Lin Xun: …
Anyone would call me good-tempered for putting up with this. Lin Xun kept his patience, summarizing the hotel incident with No. 13 briefly. He omitted the part about watching Wen Jiang’s video in Room 202, claiming No. 13 suggested testing Wen Jiang with Peach Fragrance only because he’d overheard their chat about the texts Wen Jiang received.
All true. Lin Xun’s face was the picture of innocence. Hard to imagine that days ago, under Peach Fragrance’s influence, he’d been so irritated he’d smashed a vase over someone’s head.
And the texts? You sent them first, Wen Jiang, this innocent, honest “prospective boyfriend” Lin Xun subtly emphasized.
Of course, they both knew the texts were probably fake, but at this point, truth and lies didn’t matter. Playing dirty in my mind, Lin Xun added shamelessly.
He knew Qian Lang’s supernatural ability laced the texts, so belief was always shaky. Even if someone had debunked them properly back then, Lin Xun probably still would’ve modified Peach Fragrance with Forbidden Fruit to gauge Wen Jiang’s reaction.
If the Bohr Hotel incident was a round stone on a cliff’s edge, the texts were the board beneath it, No. 13’s suggestion the pressure prying it loose. Once the pressure dropped and the stone began rolling downhill on its own, it would keep going. Removing the initial board left on the cliff wouldn’t stop it—nobody would care.
Wen Jiang stayed silent on the surface but understood. He glanced at Lin Xun, his gaze sliding over him like a bug on the roadside. He didn’t bother arguing the texts were a misunderstanding. Instead, he pondered Lin Xun’s profile picture.
Lin Xun’s avatar was a pinkish mechanical bird, looking quite tender.
Red came in big red, deep red, orange-red, and more. When compiling the suspect list from red avatars, Wen Jiang had hesitated over this pinkish one, eventually slotting Lin Xun at the bottom.
Qian Lang, you really fell for it despite the color mismatch?
He’s casting such a wide net just to win you back. After a moment’s silence, Wen Jiang asked, “What did the message say?”
“A confession. Forgot already?” Lin Xun replied breezily, dodging the truth-or-fake issue—why say something dumb like ‘you sent it, don’t you know?’
Lin Xun curved his brows into a smile, irresponsibly letting the mood turn flirtatious: “Or do you want me to say it to you now?”
Wen Jiang didn’t bite, like spring breeze crashing into an iceberg.
But it didn’t matter. Wen Jiang hadn’t rejected the task outright during the “interview,” which meant Lin Xun was eighty percent in. He felt pleased inside, even a long-lost thrill stirring.
Wen Jiang’s attitude toward the texts intrigued him. If he’s not scared of me, why hasn’t he touched the water? If he respects me, why do all those things on his own? As Wen Jiang softened, no longer quite the “examiner,” Lin Xun basked in sunshine again.
Wen Jiang pressing meant either probing or caring—and caring often meant leverage.
He sees me as the bait in the trap, just like I see him. Skirting the texts’ authenticity, Lin Xun teased, “How about a little game? If you win, I’ll read it to you.”
Wen Jiang seemed fully back in gear. He stared at Lin Xun silently, then relaxed his brows, his aura shifting subtly. A bright, vivid smile bloomed on his face.
“!” Like a leisurely bird suddenly fluffing up in fright, Lin Xun’s heart skipped. His gaze instinctively flicked to Wen Jiang’s wrist.
“Sure,” Wen Jiang said with a light laugh. “Lay it on me.”
The rules for Wen Jiang and Lin Xun’s game were simple.
One-on-one alternating guesses as accuser and defender, with big dares mixed in. Each round, the accuser made a guess about anything concerning the defender, who then revealed if it was correct.
Guess right, and you commanded the defender to do something. Guess wrong, and you obeyed one of their commands unconditionally.
Wen Jiang raised a fairness issue: What if the accuser nailed the defender’s action or thought, but the defender denied it? How to detect lies, when only the defender truly knew the truth?
It sounded like Wen Jiang distrusted him completely. Lin Xun felt his pulse quicken, about to speak when Wen Jiang continued: “—So to put you at ease, how about you guess my supernatural ability first?”
Wen Jiang had conceded first.
As the Lin Family’s sole heir, no one in Wen Jiang’s acting circle dared lie to Lin Xun. He could spot performance tells and unravel actors’ deceptions. Hearing Wen Jiang consider this felt novel.
But Wen Jiang had the right.
With S-Grade supernatural abilities, both Xie Qi and Wen Jiang could perceive vast, normally undetectable information. Xie Qi’s Storm mainly let him hear faint sounds from afar via air currents; Wen Jiang’s Drama Stage manifested in hyper-observation of humans.
A person’s emotions leaked through voice, expressions, body language—their “life performance.” Lin Xun lacked a disguise ability to counter it. No matter how confident he seemed, he was just an “ordinary person” at lying. If Wen Jiang wanted, he could spot the cracks.
Maxed out, Drama Stage bordered on pseudo-telepathy. But unless job-related, Wen Jiang was taught not to use it that way—and he rejected mind-reading himself.
Constantly parsing others’ faces, gestures, emotions every second was more drain than gain in daily life, exhausting the mind without much desire to pry into privacy. Even Xie Qi avoided nonstop eavesdropping.
More crucially, one use led to two, then endless escalation. Over-reliance warped life, breeding excitement, mania, boredom, frustration, resentment, anxiety, doubt. Escaping the mud became hard.
Wen Jiang’s mentor admired this mindset, once snidely remarking that wielding top-tier lifestyle supernatural ability only to botch life would make for a hilariously satirical drama.
Back to now: Wen Jiang wouldn’t use his ability unless necessary, just reminding Lin Xun he had a backstop.
For fairness—Lin Xun deserved one too.
“The bracelet logs my ability usage times and output levels. Can’t fake that.” Wen Jiang slowly stirred the ice in his cup with the straw, the cubes clinking softly. Lin Xun’s gaze followed to his fingertips.
His heartbeat hadn’t steadied, defying his will. Truth be told, Lin Xun felt off—the conversation’s momentum tilting toward Wen Jiang, and he was just sitting there, watching him twirl a straw.
…When did this start?
Lin Xun wanted to check Wen Jiang’s wrist again.
Wen Jiang’s hand paused, then he chuckled lightly. Back at the Bohr Hotel, Lin Xun had abruptly asked if he was using his ability. Given his sharp senses, he couldn’t detect it—and cared deeply.
Caring means leverage.
“You were staring at my bracelet earlier.” Wen Jiang pointed out the subtle glance, casually adding, “Curious? Wanna guess when I started using it?”
“…You can guess anything about me, but I’m stuck guessing your ability?” Lin Xun teased, his gaze finally sliding past Wen Jiang’s nails to the table before him.
Wen Jiang was subtly pressuring him with his supernatural ability… wasn’t he? Lin Xun hadn’t wanted to look away earlier, so it had to be that. Yet the traces of the ability he sensed were as ethereal as air—a strangely wondrous, utterly “normal” experience for Lin Xun. He was just like any ordinary person now, judging whether someone’s ability was active not by its traces, but by more superficial feelings.
“…Isn’t that too restrictive for me?” Lin Xun smiled as he bargained playfully, while trying to find the safest spot to rest his gaze.
“I can limit my guesses to things related to today.” Wen Jiang added a new weight to one side of the scale, speaking lightly as if he couldn’t care less about Lin Xun’s inner turmoil.
He raised both hands and clapped them lightly and crisply in front of himself. The sound of applause wasn’t loud, but it rang clear at their table. Lin Xun’s attention instinctively converged on the noise, locking eyes with Wen Jiang.
…Tch. Lin Xun clicked his tongue inwardly, his gaze nearly fixed on Wen Jiang’s face.
But that sensation of being firmly gripped vanished almost immediately. A faint curve tugged at Wen Jiang’s lips, permitting Lin Xun to look away—but the impression he gave off still felt slightly different from usual.
It was as if Wen Jiang were handing him an exam paper. Had he completely shut off his ability now? Or dialed its power down to a level that wouldn’t affect gazes? Or kept the power unchanged but simply chosen not to manipulate anyone’s attention? Lin Xun couldn’t glean the answer from him.
The one thing he could be sure of was that if detecting an ability’s presence came down to something as crude as “forced staring,” it wouldn’t qualify as a proper game. “Guessing the exact numerical value of my ability would be too unfair for you,” Wen Jiang said, looking at Lin Xun. “You can just guess when I started and stopped using my ability each time since entering the shop. Wanna play?”
The tail end of his sentence lifted slightly, like it carried a tiny hook. Lin Xun’s heartbeat quickened just a bit. The face before him was still that familiar one, yet right now, Wen Jiang’s eyes and brows brimmed with a more vivid allure that made it hard for him to tear his gaze away.
…Not as intense as at the hotel.
He could sense extremely faint, hazy traces—as if everything was no different from before Wen Jiang entered the shop. Were these traces proof that the ability was still in use? Lingering aftereffects from when his gaze had been locked moments ago? Or all just his imagination?
Was Wen Jiang using his ability right now? Was he “performing”?
The prey paced back and forth, finally hesitating as it reached out toward the trap.
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