Qian Lang’s mistakenly activated primary supernatural ability, Absolute Trust, wasn’t core to forced brainwashing. It was more akin to psychological suggestion.
To deeply implant ability-infused content into someone’s mind, the best scenario was striking their hidden secrets—the things “they themselves desperately wished were true.” The stronger the target’s inner longing, the more potent Absolute Trust became, ultimately turning into unwavering, hypnotic conviction.
If that failed, the conveyed content shouldn’t be too absurd. At minimum, it needed to seem “plausible,” a wavering thought that Qian Lang could seize, erode, and amplify—that was the essence of mental supernatural abilities.
For example, if Qian Lang force-fed “The world ends in five seconds” to someone skeptical of doomsday theories, Absolute Trust would likely flop. But change it to “You’ll trip going down the stairs tomorrow,” and they’d buy it hook, line, and sinker.
Circling back: If Qian Lang had truly sent the message to someone by mistake, the best outcome was that the recipient was an S-Level Esper like Xie Qi—highly resistant to a mere B-rank ability. They might not take the message seriously or quickly assume it was a misfire, someone playing games, not the real person, and let it slide.
The second-best was if Qian Lang’s input was drunken gibberish, incoherent sentences. Even if the recipient pegged the sender as Wen Jiang, they’d glean no useful info, and the matter would fizzle out.
The worst? Qian Lang, blessed by the god of love, typing sweet nothings with eerie precision—despite being too scrambled to even call. One yacht night, Wen Jiang confessing everywhere, his account soon bombarded with replies: eager acceptances or icy rejections.
For now, neither Wen Jiang nor Qian Lang could pinpoint which it was. All the red-avatar suspects remained eerily quiet.
Maybe it meant Qian Lang’s message was so bizarre no one bothered replying. Wen Jiang wasn’t too panicked.
Qian Lang wasn’t either. Video-calling from the other hemisphere, he sighed, “They’re probably still figuring out how to reply—it’s your message, after all.”
Wen Jiang: ?
The disconnect in their thinking sparked sudden wariness in Wen Jiang. He hung up, pulled up his chat list, and scrutinized the red-avatar suspects. Blank interfaces offered no clues.
Since that yacht night, none had messaged Wen Jiang anew. Were they truly unbothered, or spooked silent by Qian Lang’s predatory words? After staring a moment, his phone buzzed twice—the first private message tonight, from black-avatar Xie Qi: a nutrient-free “You asleep?”
Wen Jiang: No
Out of courtesy, Wen Jiang fired off a little dinosaur head peeking with a question mark overhead—succinctly asking “What’s up?”—then switched to a new list for his red avatars.
Xie Qi saw the reply and realized vanilla couple check-ins didn’t suit them. He couldn’t think what to say. After hesitating, he typed “Just wanted to ask about you,” only to cringe at the cheesiness, teeth aching. He deleted it all, agonized a few more times, and settled on a bland “Nothing.”
Chat dead that night, no follow-up. Xie Qi slumped on the sofa, utterly missing that lovestruck vibe where couples spammed nonsense amid pink bubbles. He knew he and Wen Jiang couldn’t do the “sweetie”/”baby”/”miss you, darling” routine, but this plainness irked him.
And it wasn’t his only gripe. His boyfriend was aloof online and off—daytime hand-holding required precise timing and distance. Xie Qi ruffled his hair in annoyance. Once or twice was fine, but he couldn’t clear the field every time he wanted to hold Wen Jiang’s hand.
Hand-holding was tricky enough—what about more? Xie Qi’s thoughts drifted, yanked back by a buzz from another phone on the coffee table. He glanced indifferently: a call from a contact labeled “puppy.” Tch. He yelled toward the hall’s far side, “Wen Tianlu, leash your dog.”
Wen Tianlu refused to drop his game controller amid gunfire blasts. Without looking back: “Just hang up!”
Xie Qi grabbed the phone, stone-faced past the explicit sexts, and blacklisted Wen Tianlu’s pup. He’d never dated, didn’t know campus romance etiquette, but clocked “puppy” instantly. He spun the pricey phone like cheap junk twice before tossing it back, then checked his own—special alerts for Wen Jiang. Confirmed no new messages, he dimmed the screen and stared bored at the ceiling.
Would Wen Jiang play those games? Xie Qi wondered, then dismissed it. Thanks to his family’s messy private lives, his stance on sex was open yet conservative. Unlike his parents, he was—unbelievably—a virgin. But he knew plenty, didn’t care if Wen Jiang had kinks, was innocent, or battle-hardened.
Besides, it was easy to tell: Wen Jiang was the studious type, pouring his youth into school.
Qian Lang was carefree but thoughtful in details. First time introducing Wen Jiang, he’d prepped everyone. The private bar’s central dance floor pulsed; outer edges dim and veiled—the tamest spot, Xie Qi’s crew. They’d promised Qian Lang no usual blind-eye antics. Lin Xun dragged his new pet anyway, but made them swap to decent clothes—for Qian Lang’s sake.
Wen Jiang spoke little but answered all, voice as coldly serene as his looks. No stiffness, just innate distance. Xie Qi lost interest after a few glances.
He perked up again when Qian Lang stepped away, sharp ears catching the parting advice: “Don’t wander. Bathroom’s straight ahead, then right—no wrong turns.”
Xie Qi arched a brow, inwardly scoffing at Qian Lang playing parent. He got the worry, though—if Wen Jiang asked around, some joker might point the shadowy other way. Pitch black, indistinct moans and gasps drifting. Worse luck? No guarantees.
Wen Jiang’s cool exterior deceived. Once Qian Lang left, Lin Xun’s interest stirred. He craved “high difficulty”—the urge to shatter an icy flower. His gaze on Wen Jiang burned subtly.
Xie Qi didn’t care about Lin Xun’s schemes but hated drama under his nose. He abruptly kicked the table leg hard, sloshing drinks from glasses. As Lin Xun snapped alert, Xie Qi drawled lazily, “Sorry, leg slipped.”
Fuck, long legs make you king? Lin Xun grumbled inwardly, reining it in but persistent. Flashing a smile: “Waiting’s boring. Cards?”
Plain gambling? Fine. But loser took punishments: shots or winner’s command. Motives obvious. Wen Jiang eyed Lin Xun, nodded faintly, and said crisply, “Sure.”
No saving someone rushing the gun. Xie Qi washed his hands of it. If Qian Lang’s pal was that dumb, better to crash early and learn.
Lin Xun wouldn’t play fair. With win-or-bust intent, he’d cheat subtly—”harmless fun.” Wen Jiang agreed to abide losses; Qian Lang couldn’t complain.
Qian Lang’s absence dragged, breeding unease. He hurried back, spotting Lin Xun and Wen Jiang heads nearly touching. Heart dropping, he cursed Lin Xun’s ancestors. Rushing over, reality diverged: Wen Jiang cradled Lin Xun’s chin with one hand, marker in the other, drawing ancient Egyptian-style big eyes on his forehead.
“…” Qian Lang blurted, “You two cosplaying Erlang Shen here?”
Wen Tianlu cracked, collapsing on the sofa in hysterics. Even Lin Xun’s sweet pet shook with stifled laughs. In the dim light, Qian Lang saw more: vivid turtles on both cheeks.
Wen Jiang painted symmetrically. Qian Lang stroked his chin, appraising: “Nice. Looks like door guardians from afar—evil-repelling.”
Lin Xun’s face blackened demon-like. Zero wins; he knew Wen Jiang cheated too, but no proof. Had to let the face-painting slide.
Seated opposite, Lin Xun leaned half-forward like Wen Jiang’s dog. Wen Jiang’s long, strong fingers pinned his chin firm against fidgeting. Up close, that face’s superiority hit harder—inky eyes an icy abyss, sucking you in, imperiously overlooking. Lin Xun felt creeped, pissed, with a weird thrill deep down.
Xie Qi just found it funny. He finally eyed Wen Jiang properly—but that was it. Used to being the boss, he clashed with fellow “aloof gods.” Unlike Lin Xun, he didn’t itch to grovel. No trouble from Wen Jiang? Mutual.
The meet ended well. Parting ways, Qian Lang and Wen Jiang left first—no overnights. Xie Qi soon followed; no point lingering sans hunt. Nearing the corridor turn, he caught friends’ voices: Qian Lang mercilessly mocking Lin Xun’s flop, then fretting, “Thought you two were making out when I came—scared me shitless.”
“If he pushes cards again, just say no,” Qian Lang nagged like a worried bro. “He won’t dare push it. No playing with schemers.”
“No issue. His cheating sucks compared to mine.” Xie Qi overheard Wen Jiang’s flat tone, dismissing petty jabs. More than admiring grit, he suspected Qian Lang was simping hard.
Next: “We running?”
“That pen was oil-based.” Wen Jiang’s voice stayed even. “He’ll realize it won’t wipe off.”
Their voices faded amid hasty steps and Qian Lang’s bursting laughter. Xie Qi paused, replaying details. Wen Jiang hadn’t hidden the pen—claimed water-based, showed it openly. Lin Xun, face-saving, didn’t check, just leaned in.
Wen Jiang paused stone-faced, pen in hand, pondering. Others figured shy good-boy vibes. Lin Xun inwardly hoped he’d stop, but magnanimously urged, “Draw away—loser pays up, anything goes.”
So Wen Jiang’s near-spoken words died unspoken. Nodding, he drew the turtle.
Xie Qi mulled it over, a bizarre hunch forming: This famed aloof school topper probably meant to joke—”Oil-based, by the way”—but no one bit as straight man. Lin Xun’s “anything” let him roll with it, turning gag to graffiti.
