Chapter 35: Annoyed

Friday, 21:00

Ke Yuan: Failed to become the lead actor ><

Ke Yuan: Still not good enough.

Ke Yuan: crying.jpg

What was there to cry about? Jiang Hehu closed the chat interface without responding to his troublesome, drama-loving cousin.

He could read between the lines—the guy wanted him to step in and back him up.

Maybe because he’d gained so many indirect benefits through their family ties, Ke Yuan was careful to mind his manners when chatting with Jiang Hehu, but deep down, he still treated their dynamic like “big bro looking out for little bro.” Or rather, he assumed that “disrespecting the little bro is a slap in the big bro’s face, and big bro won’t let that slide,” which was why he came whining to him.

How stupid.

Jiang Hehu admitted he might—just a tiny bit—like this novel “big brother” role, so he’d indulged Ke Yuan by tacitly allowing it. But his cousin’s thought process was truly nothing to compliment.

After all, how insecure did you have to be to sweat the small stuff like this?

If you wanted to squash an ant, you just squashed it. Why all the twists and turns? Why sneak around the ant colony, scouting for the one that swiped a crumb from the neighbor kid’s uneaten lunch, then rush over to “teach it a lesson” just to show off your power and remind them who’s boss…

Was he that idle?

Even after entering Qingchi, Ke Yuan’s head was still stuck in the old school’s playbook. He hadn’t realized yet how precarious his position was.

Right now, people fawned over him and gave him leeway because they suspected he was the “pampered baby brother” who could summon Jiang Hehu to avenge any grievance. But if that illusion shattered—if they saw it wasn’t real—most folks in Qingchi understood the “ant theory.” They’d know exactly how to toe the line without pissing Jiang Hehu off, while still looking down on Ke Yuan. Could his cousin handle that?

Forget big bro-little bro nonsense. It’d be more practical to mock him to his face—that would change the nature of things—

—”I’m the lead actor.”

“…”

Jiang Hehu stared at Wen Jiang, who sat brazenly in the pavilion, having just “reminded” him like that. A wave of irritation surged in his chest. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Just letting you know. Wen Jiang shot him an innocent glance.

“Looking for trouble, huh?” Jiang Hehu let out a cold laugh, turning back to his sketchbook. His charcoal pencil scraped harshly across the paper. “Deliberately mocking me? Warning me to stay out of your Drama Club business? You sent me that weird threatening text before, blocked me at the Training Field—Wen Jiang, are you still holding a grudge from that fight? Funny! I’m still holding one too!”

“Wrong.” Wen Jiang had no intention of debating the threatening text with Jiang Hehu. He untied the ribbon on the cake box, calmly correcting the phrasing. “I unilaterally beat your ass.”

That opening clash at the start of term—far earlier and quieter than the Training Field drama—had begun with Jiang Hehu ambushing Wen Jiang solo to throw his weight around. It ended with his Supernatural Ability suppressed by the Inhibitor Bracelet, leaving him alone and getting pummeled by Wen Jiang. That set the tone for their interactions ever since.

The charcoal pencil slashed down hard. Mentioning it made Jiang Hehu’s blood boil. “I never planned to throw the first punch!” And then you went and hit me first!

“That was self-defense.”

If Jiang Hehu had landed even one hit, what would have happened to Wen Jiang afterward?

The cake was pre-cut into easy-to-eat triangles. Wen Jiang took a piece and started from the tip. He lingered unusually on the point with Jiang Hehu. “You don’t get it at all?”

The sharp edge in that question paused Jiang Hehu’s sketching hand again. He gripped the pencil tighter and silently resumed outlining the black-and-white dreamlike courtyard. The evening at school was windless, only the faint scritch-scratch of pencil on paper. After a moment, Jiang Hehu muttered sullenly, “No clue.”

Kids flood ant hills out of curiosity, poke at bugs in the dirt out of boredom. The ants get swept a few steps away by the trickle; the bugs wriggle in their pupal cases under sporadic prods. Few would yell that the child was maliciously abusing life. Even in scolding, it’d rarely escalate to slapping the kid and tearfully demanding how they turned so evil.

More often, it became a cute little anecdote—a fond childhood memory, or a fun lesson on bug habits for the next generation.

So Wen Jiang never expected genuine remorse or a toning down of the guy’s twisted temper. Feeling aggrieved was predictable. From the start, he’d held no hopes.

Look, he wouldn’t even get someone expelled, sabotage their parents’ careers, or push them to utter desperation—things he could easily do. Instead, he’d swallowed the humiliation of eating dirt at Wen Jiang’s hands. He’d already been extraordinarily “tolerant” and “special” toward him.

Reason alone couldn’t overhaul and assimilate someone whose worldview had been worlds apart since birth. But after half-passively swapping assignments with Lin Xun, Wen Jiang’s thinking had shifted slightly.

The stone had rolled off the cliff. The invisible boundaries of non-interference had blurred. Ignoring and indulging his “poker buddies” too much might let them push boundaries further.

Either way, he needed the Art Festival performance to go smoothly. Better to nip potential trouble in the bud than wait for Jiang Hehu to pull a Lin Xun—some whimsical stunt with endless fallout if mishandled.

He’d eaten a third of the triangular slice on his plate. Wen Jiang grabbed a fresh fork and warned, “Stay out of Drama Club business.”

Jiang Hehu shot back irritably, “Make me?”

He hadn’t planned to meddle before—but now that Wen Jiang said it, Jiang Hehu slashed his pencil viciously across the page. Now he kinda wanted to!

“So what’ll you do?” Wen Jiang asked flatly. “Follow your Combat System duel rules?”

Combat System duels were just one-on-one brawls: either set a prize beforehand or the loser obeyed one command from the winner. Same as last year’s mountain road race at Qingchi or betting on A-Rank Arena matches or Lin Xun’s guessing games—strip away the flair, and most “thrilling” games boiled down to that formula.

At least Jiang Hehu wasn’t a sore loser. Wen Jiang wasn’t worried about that. Back when he’d bet wrong on the A-Rank Arena and had to swap into a waiter’s uniform, he’d done it. Gao Mingcheng was the fallout from that.

But a kiddie “command” like that was boring. Out of Wen Jiang’s sight, these inner-circle games turned nasty when class differences entered the mix: endless humiliations like crawling and barking like a dog or kneeling to clean the party hall.

They fell silent for a beat. Jiang Hehu snapped his sketchbook shut with a thwack. “Fine.” He stood, stepped into the pavilion, set his book and pencil on the table, and declared loudly, “If I win, you’ll… fetch my tea, pour my water from now on.”

Wen Jiang glanced up.

“…and give shoulder rubs, leg massages. No more hitting me.”

You don’t hit me, and I won’t hit you. Wen Jiang didn’t bother correcting him. He lowered his eyes, speared a piece of cake with his fork, and held it up. “Want some?”

“?!?”

Jiang Hehu’s eyes bulged like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He instinctively stepped back, then caught himself. “Pulling that trick again?”

Wen Jiang blinked innocently, as if clueless. He curved his lips in playful jest. “What trick?”

This one. Last time, and the time before! Jiang Hehu fumed inwardly. Not even pretending anymore. Does Wen Jiang really think he can keep winning with this crap?

Pitting a Lifestyle System esper against a Combat System one was absurd—like asking someone to race a sports car on foot. Even if Jiang Hehu won, no one would praise him, not even himself.

But if Wen Jiang used Drama Stage to create an opening daze, exploited Bloodbath‘s reinforcement traits with a Suppressor to nullify it, and turned the tables? That’d be five hundred infantry beating twenty thousand elite cavalry. People would hail it: “masterful use of Ability strengths,” “exploiting enemy weaknesses,” “seizing the moment.” Or it’d become a cautionary tale for Combat System students: never underestimate.

But using the same trick three times? Treating him like an idiot! Jiang Hehu glared silently, eyes flicking to the Inhibitor Bracelet on Wen Jiang’s wrist. Wen Jiang raised a brow—no deliberate seduction, no exotic allure. Just: “Eat or not?”

His vibe was natural, bright, friendly, equal—like spring sunlight on open fields, like a trusted travel companion…

Like Yusser, protagonist of Seri’s Golden Lakeside.

Was it Drama Stage sharpening his instincts? Wen Jiang knew exactly what to perform for each person. It always left Jiang Hehu inexplicably embarrassed and pissed.

Realizing at the Bohr Hotel that Wen Jiang’s attitudes toward the three of them differed sharply—and his “affection” toward him was likely calculated acting—had clogged his chest with frustration.

“Not eating from your hand.” Jiang Hehu huffed, stubbornly resisting. He pinched his fingertips unconsciously, gaze shifting to the table. He grabbed a pre-portioned slice on a plate across from Wen Jiang. “I’ll eat this.”

“Ah,” Wen Jiang reminded him, “that’s for Xie Qi.”

What? Jiang Hehu narrowed his eyes, his refined face sharpening with suspicion. “You pre-cut a whole piece for him, and now you’re fobbing me off with a bite?”

“That works too.” Wen Jiang smiled, unperturbed by Jiang Hehu’s petulance, as if they were just holding tea in the pavilion. “I’ll cut him a new one later.”

Still acting! Emotionally, the relaxed, elegant Wen Jiang didn’t scream “performance”—that crisp vibe seemed to radiate from his bones. Rationally, it was all deliberate play. Unsure how much Drama Stage influenced him, or if rejecting the “trap” would ease his mind, Jiang Hehu scowled and shoved the chosen cake into his mouth.

Average, cheap, plain, boring. It held a basic sweet note but was utterly subpar. Jiang Hehu chewed vengefully, inwardly griping—then his teeth nudged something small and hard.

Wait.

In an instant, power drained from his body like it was forcibly yanked. The tiny ring-shaped object touched his tongue.

It was the discarded Suppressor.

The realization hit—and Jiang Hehu’s collar was yanked. His head slammed into the table, arm wrenching in pain before Wen Jiang pinned it behind his back with one hand.

The other hand—cool porcelain-smooth, with impossible strength—clamped over his mouth, blocking any chance to spit out the Ring.

It actually worked a third time.

Powerless, Jiang Hehu was just a pampered young master for Wen Jiang to toy with. He made muffled “mmph-mmph” noises, struggling fiercely. Wen Jiang pinched his cheek, forcing his head up; the ring slid deeper with gravity. Jiang Hehu’s eyes widened, body going rigid. He froze, not daring to thrash.

“It’s yours now.” Wen Jiang spoke coolly from behind, lowering his head to avoid an accidental swallow.

The victor had been temporarily decided. It all depended on whether Wen Jiang wanted to do as he had before—pummel the opponent while he was weak, until he couldn’t activate his Supernatural Ability even without the Ring. But since he had to use one hand to clamp Jiang Hehu’s mouth shut, he couldn’t slam his head like last time.

The most straightforward way to settle the fight was, of course, to make him swallow the Ring cleanly. He could always go to the hospital to get it out later. After a brief moment of shock, Jiang Hehu realized this. His breathing grew heavier, and in a tantrum-like burst, he struggled fiercely once more beneath Wen Jiang’s grip.

Either you really let this Ring slide all the way into my stomach, or I bite you right now to force you to let go, spit it out, and then beat you, Jiang Hehu conveyed through his muffled silence. The hand clamping his mouth felt like an iron shackle, but it only fueled his building rage, making his blood boil.

This was the second reason why Combat System ability users like those with Bloodbath had to be dealt with quickly. Once things turned into a prolonged struggle, their near-instinctual ferocity would start to stir. As a viable way to turn the tables, Jiang Hehu was seriously considering sinking his teeth into Wen Jiang. He couldn’t recall that he’d been bitten until he bled before too—he could recover good as new in seven or eight minutes, while Wen Jiang would be stuck wrapping real bandages around the wound for days.

But this was an agreed-upon match, and Wen Jiang didn’t want to play the victim right now. He just wanted to make Jiang Hehu hear what he didn’t want to say.

“This play is really important to me. Don’t interfere.”

The guy beneath him wasn’t exactly in a state to listen. Wen Jiang pressed down harder on the increasingly desperate, reckless struggles of Jiang Hehu, his tone growing icier.

“You really annoy me.”

It was as if those words had drawn a rest stop. The body beneath him suddenly went still.