Chapter 34: Big Mountain

Two towering mountains loomed before Ke Yuan.

The first was Senior Lu Jinghuai, possessor of the A-Rank Supernatural Ability [Heavenly Sound]. It was of the same category as his own [Angel’s Voice]. Lu Jinghuai had a quiet personality and disliked causing trouble—the type who typically chose to yield first when her interests were threatened. But when it came to singing, she was unexpectedly stubborn, refusing to feel defeated on that front alone.

This made it hard for anyone to replace her.

The second was Senior Wen Jiang, wielder of the S-Class Esper Ability [Drama Stage], a celebrity at Qingchi. Ke Yuan had heard his name on the very first day of enrollment. The first time he learned what Wen Jiang looked like was in his cousin Jiang Hehu’s room.

From the drawer in the bedside cabinet, Ke Yuan had pulled out a thin booklet tucked deep inside. The cover depicted a pristine sky, soft white clouds, vast emerald grasslands backed by snow-capped mountains, and a winding river that linked the front and back covers. At the river’s end stood the tall back of a figure in exotic attire, raising a hand to gaze into the distance.

The booklet clearly wasn’t a commercial product. Upon flipping through it, Ke Yuan recognized the cover art as the protagonist from a certain play. This was a fan-oriented setting collection, featuring short stories, plot details, and actor interviews related to Seri’s Golden Lakeside, along with several character posters as bonuses.

Jiang Hehu had four posters. Three of them—the aged king from the story’s opening, the key shepherd figure who ran through the entire tale, and the scheming knight from the northern border—were folded and tucked into the booklet, their surfaces marked by stark white creases that divided the characters into neat squares.

The fourth poster wasn’t folded. It lay flat at the very bottom of the drawer. Ke Yuan had pulled it out specifically and discovered it was a character poster from that play.

Framed and preserved, the poster showed the story’s protagonist surrounded by the grassland dwellers. He wore lightweight yet noble garments that set him apart, with hands reaching to place a flower crown on his head. His sharp sword rested nearby as he bowed slightly, accepting the gift while curving his brows in a smile as he chatted with others. The endless plains had nurtured his open, romantic nature, while his innate nobility lent him the elegance he deserved.

A refreshingly striking impression. A smile too faint would seem distant; too broad, overly rustic. He had a face fit for the screen, but what lingered most was the perfectly balanced aura he exuded.

Ke Yuan had wanted to study it longer, but the item was snatched from his hands. His notoriously bad-tempered cousin, face darkened, shoved it back into the depths of the drawer. The drawer slammed shut with a bang, Jiang Hehu’s brows furrowed tight as he bellowed, “Don’t go rifling through my stuff!”

“Sorry,” Ke Yuan said softly, head lowered in a mix of grievance and sadness before he lost access to the room forever. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

He pulled a wish bottle from behind his back, covered in paper stars—an utterly meaningless trinket. “I folded them myself. Cute, right?”

Jiang Hehu fell silent for a long moment, then let out a drawn-out, awkward “Urrgh—” like he’d swallowed a live frog. He looked utterly disgusted, as if sustaining a grievous inner wound that left him weakened. In the end, he grumpily hoisted Ke Yuan out of the room single-handedly.

But he did nothing else, said nothing else—that meant forgiveness. Standing outside the closed door, Ke Yuan figured he could return in half an hour, just as long as he didn’t touch the drawer again.

Easy to handle. Adults are easy, classmates are easy, even my foul-tempered cousin is easy in his own way. But that poster, specially framed and hidden away in an unseen drawer, piqued Ke Yuan’s curiosity. After enrolling at Qingchi, he learned from others that only three hundred copies of the Seri’s Golden Lakeside setting collection had ever been made.

“This was the Drama Club’s first play where both lead actor and scriptwriter were first-year freshmen. No one thought it’d work, but it sold out in ten minutes after the final curtain.”

The storyteller rattled off details like a true fan, their tone laced with enthusiasm, envy, regret, and a distant awe, as if it were something to behold from afar.

The same person who’d been fawning over Ke Yuan moments before now acted like he didn’t exist. “That’s amazing,” Ke Yuan said with thanks, beaming. “Now I really want to join the Drama Club too.”

“Ah, sure you can…” Ke Yuan caught the flicker of hesitation and disdain in their eyes. Maybe they didn’t want to crush a freshman’s dreams so soon—or perhaps it was his connection to Jiang Hehu. In a tone of hopeless cheer, they added, “You can apply, but the Drama Club’s entry bar is sky-high.”

Annoying. Ke Yuan nodded, flashing a smile brimming with determination and longing.

The second time Ke Yuan saw Wen Jiang was while queuing to submit his club application. He only glimpsed the senior’s profile—an icily aloof face like an impenetrable glacier, utterly unlike the poster’s vibe. The instant he saw it, Ke Yuan understood his cousin’s “disillusionment.”

Whispers rippled around him, and standing nearby made Ke Yuan feel lumped in with the admirers. Wen Jiang’s side was empty save for one girl—one hand in her school jacket pocket, the other clutching a rolled script—chatting with him as they passed. They brushed by Ke Yuan like a pebble or blade of grass.

Not actor and actor, but the golden duo of actor and scriptwriter, others had told him.

And both were “commoners.”

It was oddly fascinating how those at the pyramid’s peak praised the looks of those below—something only possible at Qingchi. His parents had wanted him at another school, but he’d insisted. Ke Yuan had chosen here anyway.

Qingchi recruited S-Rank Ability Users amid fierce competition, vast class gaps, where someone was always better, more dazzling. What made him the moon-like center at his old school left him ordinary here.

Like a pearl atop a sandpile drawing eyes—put it amid a chestful, and no one notes the 302nd one’s shine amid the glittering whole.

To stand out in a jewel heap was far harder than on barren soil. When Ke Yuan left school, people might say, “That’s a Qingchi student.” But for his cousin, his cousin’s friends, or the Wen Jiang on that poster? “Look at that guy.” That was the gap.

Hmm… but what did it matter, really?

Not much. But just as some schemed to climb high society, others played the fool for chatter—who didn’t know what was distant, foolish, or emptily satisfying? Yet when it hit, platitudes like “know content” or “be yourself” offered no solace.

At Qingchi, even his cousin fell short. Before the club seniors knew him, Ke Yuan had aimed to land a lead role in his first year.

He just hadn’t expected Lu Jinghuai to be in the Drama Club too. Should he praise Qingchi as a true “box of gems”? With her around, even in a musical prioritizing sound-based abilities, Ke Yuan couldn’t claim first place. Other roles would default to Wen Jiang.

This time, I was so close.

In the past, he could’ve called to swap the president out early. Now, he had to hold back. Jiang Hehu’s patterns hadn’t changed much—probably no one could truly make him yield.

Jiang Hehu was the one who could call anytime, unchanged by circumstance. Being someone else meant the scales might tilt his way briefly, then swing back like this. His parents’ “rather be chicken head than phoenix tail” mindset explained their reluctance.

So annoying. Ke Yuan scrolled the club group chat’s final cast list, absentmindedly nibbling his knuckle.

Messages flooded in below; his phone buzzed with chats he ignored. He’d set partial visibility and posted a wistful “keep pushing” update to his friends circle, then switched back, firing off a cute “fighting!” emoji with the rest.

***

The president’s announcement of a script and cast change swept through the Drama Club like a gust. Dust settled—no more “selfish” haggling, no soap-opera blowups or juicy gossip. Every group mobilized swiftly.

Wen Jiang and Ke Yuan’s rapport seemed lukewarm. Truth be told, Wen Jiang’s impression of the junior was faint—he’d been swamped this year, their club activity overlapping nil. Once roles locked in, on Saturday rehearsal day, Wen Jiang received an exorbitantly priced box of chocolate from the junior, a “gift for the senior he admired.”

“Admiration” didn’t stir Wen Jiang. As he took the chocolate, a props team member nearby fumbled a round orb with a soft yelp—it hit the floor. Wen Jiang’s gaze flicked over at the noise, catching the junior’s mood souring in that instant.

“If this were a script,” Lin Wenzhi observed the scene, holding up a cookie to Wen Jiang during break, “you ‘stole’ the male lead spot and snubbed him—”

“On competition day: arrive to find your costume maliciously shredded, drink backstage water and lose your voice to poison, mid-stage discover nails or glass in your shoes, get led by shady staff into a locked empty warehouse and miss your cue. You know, that sort of thing.”

The déjà vu hit hard, tropes from countless campus dramas flooding back. Wen Jiang chewed his bread—leftovers from over-preparing—and swallowed before deadpanning, “Sounds vicious.”

“Can’t drop your guard.” Lin Wenzhi vouched with her sharp eye for people, munching her cookie. The exquisite flavor jolted her: “Where’d these cookies come from?”

They tasted beyond their budget.

“From the president,” Wen Jiang said, still working on his bread before cookies. “He asked what I was having for lunch. I said bread, so he gave me a box.”

…There, the ‘hardworking, skips-meals-for-club, strong-yet-pitiable’ persona solidifies. Lin Wenzhi sighed inwardly: I’m a genius. For devising such a ploy.

Wen Jiang expressionlessly agreed: “Yeah, genius.”

Though Wen Jiang now had cookies, Lin Wenzhi’s mood lifted. Fair was fair—she splurged to reward him. Post-afternoon rehearsal, he got an Earl Grey mousse cake.

Too many sweets today; Wen Jiang figured he’d share the cake or eat half and fridge the rest. He scanned around but found no familiar face lucky enough.

Saturday at Qingchi still buzzed: polo on the fields, faint piano from the hall, idle students milling about. Wen Jiang glanced their way, and they scattered like sparrows.

Not here just to stroll, surely. He messaged Xie Qi: Little dinosaur wants cake.jpg

Xie Qi wouldn’t touch overnight fridge cake—he had to eat within two hours. Having invited the one picking him up later, Wen Jiang clutched the cake, seeking a secluded, scenic spot.

He knew exactly where the crowds thinned out. The school wouldn’t openly decree that only high-rank Supernatural Ability users could enter certain spots, but just like the cafeterias sorted into obvious tiers, people naturally gravitated toward “the places they belonged.” Wen Jiang followed a specially paved pebble path, and amid the lush green foliage, he spotted a central pavilion.

Quiet, easy on the eyes, and free of outsiders—Wen Jiang nodded in satisfaction as he set the cake down on the table at the pavilion’s heart. He glanced up and caught sight of a fluffy head poking out from the stone steps across from him.

Wen Jiang: ……

Jiang Hehu lounged against one of the pavilion’s pillars, his back to Wen Jiang, pencil scratching away at a sketch. The tip hesitated for a beat before he frowned and twisted around. “What do you want?”

With senses as sharp as Jiang Hehu’s, he’d have clocked Wen Jiang’s approach the moment he laid eyes on the pavilion.

…Should I give him a piece of the cake?

Come to think of it, I promised Lin Wenzhi I’d gauge Jiang Hehu’s intentions.

Wen Jiang fell silent for a moment, then settled into one of the pavilion chairs. He spoke calmly: “I’m the lead actor.”

Not your little brother.

Jiang Hehu: ……

What the hell? Did he come here just to start something?!