“Aili Bakery” had switched to an appointment-only system today.
It was located on prime real estate in Yanhai, and while its renovations and desserts weren’t extraordinarily popular, they were at least impeccably presented. Rumor had it there’d been a brief explosion in popularity once, with cake orders flying in like snowflakes.
But the current staff, hearing the gossip from chatty friends, learned that the bakery’s hot streak back then had nothing to do with the new desserts—it was all because of one incredibly talented former employee. Once he left, business quickly settled back to normal levels.
What kind of predecessor could single-handedly drive that many orders? The current staff couldn’t imagine it; it sounded beyond even a star employee’s capabilities, leaving who knew how much exaggeration in the tale.
In any case, the “Aili Bakery” of today had no need for an “appointments full” sign at the door. Most customers grabbed their treats to go or didn’t come at all, so there weren’t many people lingering inside. After delivering lemon water to the two newest arrivals, the staff got a call from the manager, instructing him to hang up a sign saying “Fully Booked—no more customers today.”
The voice on the phone sounded both excited and anxious, rattling off a bunch of tasks in a nonstop stream: hang the sign, call the pastry chef back on standby even though it was their break, keep the place utterly quiet, and do a thorough, meticulous cleaning check from top to bottom. If the manager weren’t out of town—a three-hour drive at least—the staff figured they’d teleport back in an instant.
The staff didn’t get a clear explanation of what was going on and decided not to dwell on it. He just followed orders, chatting quietly with his coworker about those two latest customers who were only sipping their water.
Both men were strikingly handsome, in completely different styles. His friend told him the one on the left would make a perfect male lead—his smile evoked a spring forest stream with peach blossoms drifting on the water.
What a cheesy metaphor. The friend had chatted with that customer earlier, starting off stiff-faced but quickly warming up and hitting it off. Now they were best buds in his mind. The staff stayed neutral and changed the subject: what about the guy on the right?
The friend snuck a glance and said the right-side one suited a mysterious late-game powerhouse role—few scenes needed, but his aura would dominate, stealing all the popularity others built over half a season in one appearance.
He gave off the vibe of a distant snow-capped mountain and crystalline glacier. After a moment, the friend revised: maybe he’d pigeonholed the role too narrowly; this guy seemed surprisingly versatile.
“Versatile”—such a flattering word. If the usual Wen Jiang heard it, he’d give a deadpan nod and flatly agree, “I think so too.”
But he wouldn’t say that now.
Unlike his formal stage performances or the A-Rank Arena footage, Lin Xun compared what he’d seen before—Wen Jiang’s current state was more relaxed, subtly closing the distance with others without constant smiling. His lips just curved faintly now and then, not like he’d become a whole different person.
But the impression a person gave was always vague and hard to pin down. Sometimes you poured everything into packaging—clothes, voice, looks—and still got “no real change.” Other times, a slight shift in tone or expression made them feel utterly transformed.
This Wen Jiang felt a bit unfamiliar yet familiar, Lin Xun thought—thick-skinned as it sounded, right up his alley. He’d seen plenty of “toys” who deliberately catered to his tastes, but if he labeled this the same kind of calculated seduction, everything would feel off, uncomfortable. He couldn’t link those words to Wen Jiang.
Maybe it’s just the game we’re playing. After that brief seizure of his gaze, Lin Xun’s suspicion grew stronger. He couldn’t spot clear traces—rationally hesitant, but viscerally convinced Wen Jiang was performing. The usual Wen Jiang would never be this gentle with me?
That pegged the Drama Stage’s activation as ongoing. Lin Xun’s first guess at the timeframe: from Wen Jiang’s clap until now.
Wen Jiang brushed it off lightly. “Wrong.”
He hadn’t really expected to nail it on the first try. Per the rules, a wrong guess meant Wen Jiang could order him to do one thing. Lin Xun kept his expression relaxed. “Too bad.”
This game actually gave Lin Xun an edge—Wen Jiang was interested in the homework, so he wouldn’t win and command “we’re done here.” And if asked about the chat or texts? He’d just answer straight up; it cost him nothing.
In other words, his “margin for error” was way higher than Wen Jiang’s.
Games thrived on wins, losses, punishments, and rewards for that thrill. Lin Xun excelled at ramping it up, while good-student Wen Jiang clearly wouldn’t demand anything outrageous—
Wouldn’t he?
…Probably just doodling with a marker, right?
After being tossed into that Peach Fragrance-filled bathroom, Lin Xun suddenly wasn’t so sure.
Wen Jiang told him to drink the lemon water right by his hand.
It was like rain after a drought—pure benefit. Lin Xun drained it in one go and magnanimously offered, “Want to give another command?”
Wen Jiang propped his cheek on his hand, his tone more flamboyant yet softer. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
…The trap’s waving hello.
So disorienting, but kinda nice… Drama Stage effect?
“You didn’t come for homework today.”
Sides swapped. Wen Jiang ignored Lin Xun’s mental gymnastics. The other guy had never gone to such lengths for interaction before—a party wasn’t some unsolvable crisis he needed help with. Linking it to recent events, Wen Jiang stated his guess like fact. “You’re here because of the hotel incident.”
…Nailed it. Lin Xun had planned to bring it up himself if he won once. He admitted readily. “What do you want me to do?”
Wen Jiang told him to drink another glass of water.
One quenched thirst; two weren’t as refreshing. Lin Xun sipped slower this time, sensing something off. Flashes of drinking games hit him, and he half-joked, “You’re not planning to waterboard me forever, are you?”
“Healthier than booze.”
Wen Jiang, with his pristine habits, neither confirmed nor denied.
There weren’t any real drinks here anyway. If not for Wen Jiang’s tastes, Lin Xun wouldn’t have picked this spot. He’d tried a cake here once during Wen Jiang’s shift—not bad, but ordinary ingredients. He ate one piece; the rest probably went to the household staff.
Right then, the staff brought over two slices of cake as complimentary gifts for today’s guests—one per person. Lin Xun found the blatant self-promo amusing. He ignored the fork, finished his water, and made his second guess. End timeframe: “now.” Start: when he’d proposed the game and Wen Jiang smilingly agreed.
Wen Jiang’s eyes curved, but his voice turned coolly contradictory. “Wrong.”
He tapped the glass—the command was obvious.
…Hard to say if this beats drinking for misery.
The third big glass went down like pure punishment. Lin Xun’s face stiffened. Having confirmed it was the hotel—or the Charm-Type Esper Ability—next guess followed naturally. Wen Jiang pointed out: “There’s something wrong with your physical condition right now.”
Wen Jiang had considered this back at the hotel. Under Drama Stage’s influence, Lin Xun had seen an image perfectly matching his inner desires—like tasting the best and scorning the rest. His “standards” for attraction spiked temporarily.
But reality? No one existed purely tailored to your whims.
Imagination stayed imagination—a basic truth. Normal people obsessed briefly would eventually let go, standards normalizing. But Lin Xun? He’d lacked even that short buffer.
Seconds later, Peach Fragrance hit again. He desperately needed someone he approved of to help out. But perfect phantoms didn’t exist in reality. Back then, he’d likely hit a phase where past options felt bland now—relief stalled.
And it had been exactly that, even worse than Wen Jiang predicted. Lin Xun acted flippant but wasn’t undiscriminating. Even dosed with heavy Peach Fragrance, dragging just anyone—like No. 13 Ji Yu, equally wrecked in the room—would’ve been impossible for him.
Already picky; now impossibly so. When the Lin Family fetched “suitable” options, he’d smashed a vase on one’s head and raged. In the end, he’d just powered through with cold showers.
Better to vent than suppress. Mishandling it like that worsened the Charm-Type Esper Ability’s aftereffects. Even if he could self-relieve now, it’d feel stifled—discomfort beyond lust, dogging him to this day.
But hearing it from someone else? Mortifying. “I’m just uncomfortable,” not impotent, Lin Xun muttered. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”
No interest in whether you work or not. Wen Jiang stayed silent, tapping the glass rim again.
Can’t drink another! “Stop—one last one, I forfeit, okay?” Lin Xun’s face changed. A distant memory surged: playing cards cockily, ending up with two turtles drawn on his face. He decisively threw up his hands in surrender. “I’ll just show you the texts—can’t drink more.”
He frowned lightly, looking almost pitiful. Wen Jiang offered no comfort or tease, just silently extended his hand. Lin Xun felt awkward at the businesslike vibe, a strange feeling stirring inside.
He shut off the ability?
Clocking out on the dot… Lin Xun grumbled inwardly as he pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and handed it over. The latest message was brutally concise.
“Wen Jiang”: I want to love you forever.
So succinct. Qian Lang had hyped it up with rhetoric, rhythm, reminiscence, reflection, futurism—esoteric nonsense wrapped in layers. Yet here it was: a perfectly normal, complete sentence.
Wen Jiang thought of Huo Xia Tong he’d just seen. He lowered his gaze, lashes casting a small shadow, lost in thought. Lin Xun sensed a melancholy air. After a beat, Wen Jiang skipped the texts and returned to the point. “You considered using homework as collateral for me to fix your problem.”
Proposing the game first, then folding after a few rounds—it was bait for his text interest. Lin Xun saw a chance for more, suggesting the game as a ploy. Without it, things would’ve reset anyway—no real loss.
Even as a mere hook for the real goal, the game had served its purpose. His guesses hit Lin Xun’s unavoidable issues today, saving explanations.
Lin Xun stood to gain either way—it was all calculated upfront. Wen Jiang cutting straight to it surprised him at first, then felt obvious.
He’s no fool. Lin Xun grinned and laid his cards down. “The one who tied the bell must untie it.”
Wen Jiang snapped back to normal, shooting him a cold glance. Lin Xun played it cool outwardly, but his heart skipped hard.
“…You know about Reenactment Therapy.” He backpedaled instinctively. “I won’t force you. Name your terms.”
Reenactment Therapy recreated past scenarios, resolving unfinished issues and fulfilling unmet needs, easing mental knots for that “moved on” relief.
