Wen Jiang had been short on cash lately.
He hadn’t been before. The closest he’d come was when the school’s delivered Ring Suppressor needed repairs, but then Xie Qi gave him a Suppressor, wiping out that extra expense. The old ring was officially retired now, only occasionally worn for emergencies.
But on the day he met Lin Xun, a new idea took root in Wen Jiang’s mind—one that would cost no less than repairing the suppressor. Suddenly, he needed to start saving again.
To scrape together enough money quickly, Wen Jiang decided to resume his part-time work life. The sole purpose of eating at the canteen was quantity, satiety, and affordability. If Xie Qi wanted to eat with him, they’d start with the free offerings on the top floor of Yi Restaurant, paired with homemade bread.
The canteen he frequented himself had no free section.
If you ranked the canteens like a pyramid, Xie Qi and Qian Lang dined only at the top tier. Wen Jiang usually stuck to the second or third. Sure, with his status as an S-Rank Ability User, no one would complain if he went top-tier, but most of the dishes there weren’t wallet-friendly for him—he’d barely afford a bowl of fisherman’s noodles.
Students who truly needed free food never set foot in the top tier. A single dessert there could cover someone else’s meals for three months. The free daily specials—rotated for variety—were exclusive to the top tier, and they had little to do with “filling you up.” They might be drinks, cakes, fruits, seafood—anything but a simple rice bowl.
If Wen Jiang wanted to eat school cafeteria food with Qian Lang and Xie Qi, it was either they “came down” or he “went up.” He usually chose the latter.
After all, even friends kept precise tabs on a single grape or a shared potato chip. Top-tier food was delicious. Occasionally going up to mooch a few bites gave that novel thrill of every mouthful tasting like gold.
Plus, he could still buy his fisherman’s noodles at his own expense and enjoy surprise freebies he’d never even heard of. Indulging rarely wasn’t so bad. If Qian Lang and Xie Qi came down instead, their palates wouldn’t handle it.
That trope of haughty royals stepping out of the palace, scorning commoner fare only to be blown away by its perfection after one bite—it was too unrealistic in real life.
No dramatic reactions happened, but there was no need to force tasteless meals on anyone. Xie Qi seemed prepared to bravely venture into cheap low-end canteens to eat with Wen Jiang regularly. Wen Jiang thought it unnecessary.
As for the homemade bread, which worked anywhere, there was nothing wrong with that. It was one of Wen Jiang’s personal little hobbies.
Bread was the perfect partner during belt-tightening workdays, often baked by Master Wen himself. Time-tested and friend-approved, it excelled in looks, taste, value, hygiene—everything. Wen Jiang was very satisfied.
Xie Qi wasn’t.
He’d even skipped the fisherman’s noodles for old workdays staples. The moment they met at noon, Xie Qi knew Wen Jiang was in a financial pinch. But he couldn’t just wire money directly.
Xie Qi glanced at the array of dishes, fruits, and desserts on the table, then at Wen Jiang sitting across from him, poker-faced as he silently chewed his homemade bread. The food in his own mouth suddenly tasted hard to swallow. Without a word, he slid a few items toward Wen Jiang.
Feeding Wen Jiang required skill. First, portions. If Xie Qi followed his instincts, he’d stuff him full—turning it into a proper meal invite. Fine once or twice, but pushing for a lifetime subscription would get shot down. So for now, portions stayed small. Xie Qi planned to build up gradually.
…If we’re together forever, won’t that be a ‘lifetime subscription’ anyway? Why calculate so precisely now? Xie Qi grumbled inwardly, but he didn’t dare voice it.
Next, excuses. Lies or wheedling worked fine. His go-to was “I took too much, don’t waste it,” followed by “Try this—it’s good” under the sharing-delicacy banner. Wen Jiang might shoot him an exasperated look, but he’d eat it anyway.
Finally, flavor pairing—more flexible, Xie Qi’s personal preference. He couldn’t just shove anything; weird combos discounted the taste. People might love buns and chocolate, but not pork buns dipped in chocolate sauce.
Sundays together meant getting him some good food, right? Xie Qi switched chopsticks, dipped a shrimp in sauce, and asked, “In a rush?”
“Not really.” Whether it was urgent didn’t depend on him anyway. Wen Jiang just wanted to shorten the savings timeline. A ¥6,000 seafood platter landed in his bowl mid-conversation. He thought for a second and added, “If we win at the Art Festival, no rush.”
The theoretical first-prize winnings from the Art Festival would cover most of his financial pressure instantly. Hustle some savings in the meantime, and worst case, he had New Year’s money as backup. His short-term plan looked solid.
“Oh.” Not much, Xie Qi calculated. He started pondering covert ways to boost Wen Jiang’s income, feeling a twinge of helplessness. Something solvable outright had to be sneaky—no fun in that.
It was fine before, but not forever. Amid his inner conflict, Xie Qi clipped another shrimp over but couldn’t hold back: “Need me to do anything?”
Need you to do what…? Wen Jiang’s chopsticks paused. He blinked slowly, a flicker of bewilderment crossing his face. After a long half-minute, Xie Qi sensed intense turmoil behind that poker face.
Xie Qi: ?
“…” Wen Jiang said woodenly, “Sure, that’s fine.”
Wen Jiang was used to handling his own finances. He never hit snags and immediately eyed his rich friends’ wallets. Xie Qi and Qian Lang respectably stayed out of it. This healthy cross-class friendship now revealed its biggest flaw: it hadn’t even occurred to him this was an option.
Only when asked did it hit him—this time, he could actually consult Xie Qi.
What was the point of all that serious planning before…?
…No big deal. Wen Jiang resumed his breezy demeanor, popping the shrimp into his mouth. The sour-spicy tang delighted his taste buds. He picked up the thread: “Depends if you want to.”
Wen Jiang laid out his spending plan. Surprisingly, Xie Qi fell silent after hearing it.
Normally, if Wen Jiang asked for cash—even a portion—Xie Qi would wire triple immediately. But now? No instant response. After a beat: “Mm.”
“You think it’s good?” Xie Qi asked vaguely.
Wen Jiang answered honestly: “No idea.”
He just wanted to try, so he did.
“Then do it.” Xie Qi’s voice was soft, his gaze complicated. When their eyes met, he flinched away like scorched by a spark.
Some invisible mountain weighed on his shoulders, stirring a heavy melancholy and sorrow from the topic. But no rejection. Xie Qi stewed briefly, then snapped back: “Sounds good. I’ll help. Today?”
…Today what?
Realizing Xie Qi meant deploying his universal money-and-power fix right now, Wen Jiang perked up but clung to his last bottom line: “After the Art Festival.”
In the end, Wen Jiang and Xie Qi agreed to split it half-and-half.
He was the plan’s originator, after all. Xie Qi had no objections but leaned toward accompanying rather than taking over. Letting him handle everything while Wen Jiang played hands-off felt… insincere. He vaguely sensed such ease might undermine the plan’s final “negotiation”—a one-shot deal deciding if his savings went poof. Better to stay grounded.
Half the burden already eased Wen Jiang’s load immensely. From frantic worker Wen Jiang, he reverted to leisurely Wen Jiang. A familiar feeling—this mirrored the suppressor repair days. His “real” work-and-save life hadn’t even properly started before it ended.
As for Art Festival winnings, he’d still chase them. With that plus Xie Qi’s support, he’d hit his savings goal the day he got it—no need to tap extras.
Plus, he’d promised Lin Wenzhi. After school, Wen Jiang showed up on time at the Drama Club’s small meeting room.
Qingchi allotted the Drama Club ample space, including two meeting rooms. Rehearsals and group talks happened in the activity room; the props team hogged the large conference room, cluttering tables, floors, and chairs with materials and tools.
The small meeting room doubled as a private lounge, decision hub, or the president’s heart-to-heart spot. Per the president, any member with troubles could vent here.
Wen Jiang entered to glass cabinets displaying the club’s past trophies and certificates first, then a sofa and tea table. Behind the sofa loomed a desk piled with files—a standard office setup. To relax visitors, the president kept green plants around.
Wen Jiang sat in the single sofa facing the desk. The club president sat beside him on the adjacent sofa, lifting a teacup. Silence hung.
How to pitifully tug heartstrings naturally, without overacting? Behind his plain quiet, Wen Jiang’s mind raced.
The president sipped tea.
…God, I want to call Teacher Lin. The president took another tactical sip.
A student personally coached by Lin Chahe—Qingchi’s sole Lifestyle performance S-Rank. If the club was a family, members quirky kids, Wen Jiang was the top student: obedient, sensible, least worry.
So his unprecedented heart-to-heart appearance surprised—and intrigued—the president.
Must be about casting.
No other guess fit. The opinionated “eldest daughter” lately pushed hard for a script-and-cast swap, yielding the “youngest son”‘s spot to the “eldest son.” Club undercurrents churned lively.
So cute, the president sighed inwardly.
Wasn’t this drama itself? A once-in-a-lifetime, irreversible play where no one knew the end yet all propelled it. Teachers picked Wen Jiang and Lin Wenzhi to recreate Causal Butterfly* for that reason.
Sounded grand, but zoom in: just kids in a contest. Most members quailed silently. Lin Wenzhi wielded sharp, objective logic to sway. Ke Yuan seemed soft, ready to yield for the group—his effort and sad-cute persona meticulously crafted.
But effective. Even knowing his little schemes, you wanted to see his next act. Intriguingly, that foolish-yet-malicious vibe perfectly fit Lin Wenzhi’s new script role for him—far better than male lead. The president couldn’t help praising their scriptwriter.
The pivot between opposing sides. Wen Jiang aligned with the eldest daughter. How would he persuade? Unlikely Ke Yuan’s aggrieved faux-compromise coquetry. Logic, probably?
Both eldest kids were cute, but unconvincing for a real decision. Youngest sons always got extra favoritism. Musing, the president spoke mildly, voice spring-breeze soothing: “What’s up?”
“I’ve run out of inspiration,” Wen Jiang said calmly.
“?” The president’s teacup paused mid-air.
…Huh?
He glanced instinctively at Wen Jiang. The black-haired, black-eyed, handsome youth curled on the sofa, fingers lightly interlaced, eyes downcast in silence.
A faint melancholy enveloped him—like hazy mist, silken drizzle.
Rarely seen, the president thought.
Wen Jiang easily evoked images of endless mountain ranges and the purest frost-snow crowning their peaks. Snowy mountains were always unpredictable and elusive—they could deliver awe-inspiring, ethereal spectacles or unleash all-engulfing blizzards. Powerful, distant, attainable only in sight but never in grasp; that was the selling point the president had positioned for his club’s pillar.
When he reined in his edge and settled into complete stillness, he could play the ferryman of the soul’s long river, transform into the Grim Reaper as a crow perched on a branch—elegant and enigmatic. But his current demeanor was rarely less distant.
“How could that be?” The president dropped a sugar cube into Wen Jiang’s cup and said, “You’ve always been outstanding.”
“I can’t act anymore.” Wen Jiang averted his gaze, his lashes like damp crow feathers. “No one believes in me. The pressure is crushing me.”
Amid the nonstop hustle, he’d struggled to balance schoolwork and club practice. He’d finally finished his homework, only to spin right back into club activities without a break. He’d poured his all into everything, aiming for perfection, but if they didn’t win an award in the end…
He was S-Grade, after all. The previous two years, without a single S-Grade member, the club had still brought home honor awards.
Was it because Wen Jiang had seemed too detached from casting and rehearsals? The president realized he’d never considered that angle.
He slowly stirred the liquid in his cup with a spoon and gently slid the tea over to Wen Jiang, his thoughts drifting: “Don’t overthink it. Everyone knows your strength. We all rely on you.”
Then why this competition…
The cup was lifted. The unspoken truth lingered right there before them, a wisp of white steam rising from the tea. Wen Jiang blinked softly, like a butterfly in the rain—obedient, sensible, never posing overly sharp questions. Yet he was like that single pea beneath twelve layers of soft mattresses, impossible to ignore once you lay down, tossing and turning through the night.
Through the misty veil of steam, eyes that usually seemed coldly profound softened. Wen Jiang didn’t look pitiful at all. He met the president’s gaze without a trace of sorrow or fragility, his words free of any aggression, as if merely seeking an answer: “Really?”
“…Yeah.” The president heard himself say, “Of course.”
“Don’t overthink it.” He stood and walked over, patting Wen Jiang’s shoulder affectionately as he affirmed, “You’ll still play the male lead this time. We all trust you.”
Nailed it.
Now Jiang wouldn’t run dry of talent. Acting the part to the hilt, Wen Jiang lowered his head and took a sip of the sweet tea, murmuring softly, “Thank you.”
