Wen Jiang released Jiang Hehu after a minute.
After bluntly telling the other that he was being really annoying, he suddenly went completely still. Sensing no further resistance, Wen Jiang let go and sat back down in his seat to eat his cake. Jiang Hehu stood up, turned his back to Wen Jiang, and smoothed out his clothes a couple of times. He grabbed the sketchbook and pencils from the table, then returned to the stone steps to continue his drawing.
The other was a nominal member of the Painting Club. From the way he avoided crowded club activities but still sketched like this in private, it seemed he genuinely liked painting. Wen Jiang had heard some comments about Jiang Hehu’s artwork before.
Statistical studies showed that Supernatural Abilities influenced a person’s interests and hobbies. For instance, Lifestyle System students often joined clubs closely tied to their abilities—genetics seemed to predispose them to love and feel a sense of belonging toward their power’s domain. Combat System students lacked a dedicated “dueling club,” so their club choices were more scattered, all over the map.
Among them, sports and athletics clubs remained the mainstream pick for Combat System students. Lifestyle System kids could only serve as assistants or handle logistics there. But setting aside the ruthless brutality on the Training Field, purely judging by Jiang Hehu’s build and looks, he did seem better suited to quietly picking up a paintbrush—or gracefully playing a beautiful piano piece.
Silence returned around them, broken only by the ongoing scritch-scratch of the carbon pencil tip against paper. The evening sunlight spread broad swaths of orange across the pavilion columns, table, stone steps, and Jiang Hehu’s back, carving sharp-edged light and shadow on the plate before Wen Jiang.
The cake was refreshingly sweet without being cloying, its delicate texture infused with a faint tea aroma that delighted his taste buds. He propped his cheek on one hand, his gaze drifting into the faint beam of light in the air without a clear focus. With the other hand, he lightly scooped sideways with his spoon, capturing half a spoonful of twilight glow.
After the little farce wrapped up, everything felt exceptionally leisurely and serene.
Xie Qi wouldn’t arrive to pick up Wen Jiang for a little while yet. With the weather cooling, night fell faster and faster. This twilight would soon be swallowed by darkness. Wen Jiang’s phone suddenly buzzed twice. He opened it to see new messages from Xie Qi.
Xie Qi: Staying over tonight?
Xie Qi: Dinner’s whatever you like.
…Not a bad idea.
He could head straight to the new place he’d agreed on with Xie Qi tonight, saving him the early wake-up tomorrow. Based on his past experience crashing at friends’ places, Xie Qi’s spot wouldn’t skimp on cleanliness or convenience.
If he wanted, Wen Jiang wouldn’t even need to go home to pack a change of clothes or toiletries—just tell his parents, leave school with his backpack, hop in Xie Qi’s car, and everything would be handled on the other end.
Though it felt a bit off somehow.
Wen Jiang had a hunch: if he agreed to stay over, then tomorrow night, the lonely Xie Qi would push further with, “One more night won’t hurt—I’ll drive you to school anyway.”
He hadn’t decided yet. Jiang Hehu, who had been dead silent for a good while, suddenly spoke up: “Want the Ring back?”
His voice sounded unusually calm, stripped of its usual brash arrogance—like an animal doused with a bucket of cold water. Wen Jiang replied decisively: “No.”
The trope of retrieving a Ring that had been in someone’s mouth and happily slipping it back on only happened in TV dramas during surprise proposals.
Moreover, Wen Jiang had thought it through earlier. The Ring Suppressor’s protective barrier function always needed repairs, and the Ability User Association’s routine checks wouldn’t pass it. As for normal lifespan, with his extensive experience using free Suppressors, even with meticulous care, this Ring would definitely wear out faster than the wristband he wore now.
Things could slide three times, but four was pushing it. Helping him clinch the duel victory today—that counted as a win—had already squeezed the last bit of use from the Ring.
Among Wen Jiang’s scenarios, he’d imagined Jiang Hehu—after falling into three traps—venting by smashing the Ring underfoot to destroy it completely. But in reality, the guy seemed much more subdued. Jiang Hehu kept sketching hatching lines as he asked again: “Want a new one?”
What, you’re giving me a Suppressor now? Like a prize for the three-time victor?
Wen Jiang fell briefly silent. Truth be told, scoring a legit backup Suppressor was tempting, though hardly necessary—he already had a wristband that would last ages.
Strangely, even knowing this was just pocket change to them, Wen Jiang stayed relatively reserved accepting pricey gifts from Xie Qi or Qian Lang. But from Jiang Hehu and his crowd, it felt more like…
…like some internet-famous rich guy suddenly posting, “Bored today—RT and I’ll randomly gift a villa,” and you actually winning.
He wouldn’t camp refreshing for results, and missing out wouldn’t faze him. But rejecting the windfall pie from the sky? Not really.
Provided it wasn’t a trap. The guy couldn’t be copying Lin Xun, trying to trade a Suppressor for the lead role, could he? Wen Jiang pondered other possibilities. Jiang Hehu seemed to take his silence as refusal, raising his voice a tad: “I’m not asking for anything in return.”
Proactively gifting a Suppressor to someone else felt more like begging them to accept it. He kept smudging shadows with his pencil until he heard the cool voice behind him: “Up to you.”
“I’ll give it to you Monday,” Jiang Hehu replied. Maybe because of the distance and their backs turned, his voice sounded a bit muffled—but lighter than before, like the heaviest stone had been lifted from his chest.
Wen Jiang got it: this was a peace-making ploy. Now, if he wanted to fight Jiang Hehu the same way again, he’d hesitate over “but it’s his gift” and couldn’t bring himself to do it. From conscience and propriety, it straight-up killed that winning tactic.
Once the silence broke, carrying on the conversation came easily. Free from worry about getting beaten, Jiang Hehu was unusually chatty today: “Why do you always play Yusser?”
Because it works. Wen Jiang figured he was just making small talk.
Besides, Jiang Hehu’s fondness for Seri’s Golden Lakeside wasn’t some well-kept secret.
Qian Lang had spent a phase hawking Wen Jiang in their little circle, like “Our Wen Jiang’s amazing,” but with little success. After the theater premiere, though, he was vindicated and ready to settle scores, messaging everyone: “See? What’d I tell you?” No replies.
Expecting them to admit “Qian Lang, you were spot on—my bad vision” was less likely than them jumping off the roof. When Qian Lang griped to Wen Jiang about their lack of candor, the Drama Club members were tallying merchandise sales. Wen Jiang spotted Jiang Hehu’s name up there.
Qian Lang timed it perfectly: You know what Jiang Hehu’s like?
Wen Jiang replied knowingly: Anti-fan.
Buyers could leave feedback for the club. Wen Jiang noticed only his category was blank; every other actor, vocalist, lighting, props, etc., got the same verdict: Meh.
Wen Jiang followed up: Hate-stalking too.
Later, though, Jiang Hehu stopped. He probably had changed quite a bit in his dealings with Wen Jiang—huge for him, yet obviously not enough. Without elder/lover-style doting filters or blind buy-in to that pyramid class system, real praise was hard to muster.
Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun’s attitudes toward Wen Jiang had surely shifted too. When ignored, it was like a snail inching toward a leaf tip. But turn, glance, give the leaf a flick—and plop—
The snail tumbled off, landing far from the start, too distant to crawl back on its own.
“Don’t act anymore,” Jiang Hehu continued, back still turned. “Just be yourself, right? Why act every time you need something from me?”
That’s backward logic. Wen Jiang calmly pointed out: “You’re flipping the script.”
The one who never listened, always needing Supernatural Abilities to force compliance, was someone else.
Facts spoke louder than arguments—and he wasn’t so oblivious. Jiang Hehu went quiet, seemingly waging some fierce internal battle out of sight. After a long pause, he mumbled: “Sorry.”
Wen Jiang realized this was prime time to lock it in. He finally shifted his gaze, glancing at Jiang Hehu: “You’ll behave?”
No meddling in the play, as agreed. Don’t back out now.
“…” Jiang Hehu’s pencil paused. Just before Wen Jiang got bored and looked away, he spoke up: “Just stop acting.”
“Next time, just tell me straight?” He stood with his sketchbook, finally turning around, looking a bit deflated: “I don’t need the act to listen to you.”
Jiang Hehu sat across from Wen Jiang and resumed outlining on the paper. He’d been drawing for a while before Wen Jiang arrived—most of it was done, now just final tweaks and details.
He looked devoid of menace now, far from the school terror who silenced rooms. Wen Jiang finished his cake, thinking Jiang Hehu was way easier to handle than Lin Xun.
If it were Lin Xun from Aili Bakery back then, telling him “you’re annoying” might just excite him into doubling down.
Clear communication was a win-win. Wen Jiang agreed: “Sure.”
There was still half a slice of uneaten cake on the table. In Jiang Hehu’s view, Wen Jiang always seemed lost in thought, utterly indifferent. He glanced flatly at the table and added: “Take the cake.”
Yusser, protagonist of Seri’s Golden Lakeside, sure wouldn’t talk to anyone like that.
His onstage image—radiant as golden sunlight, pure as mountain-stream water—clashed wildly with his everyday vibe. Yet oddly, Jiang Hehu had never found Wen Jiang mismatched for Yusser.
“I know,” Jiang Hehu said, frowning. After a moment: “Want to model?”
The Painting Club president had invited him once to be a one-day live model. Wen Jiang had refused: “Not right now.”
“Oh.” Jiang Hehu took it calmly, unsurprised. With a rip, he tore off the finished page and set it on the table, then picked up his half-eaten cake—with the Ring Suppressor shoved inside.
“It’s yours.” He stood, closed his sketchbook, and left with the cake.
Wen Jiang looked down at the painting left behind. He’d heard the guy’s skills were top-notch, award-winning even. It wasn’t hype—just a quick glance showed clean lines, beautiful mood, strikingly pretty.
He picked it up. It depicted a black-and-white round pavilion, modeled after this very one. Though Jiang Hehu had painted it while sitting on the steps, never referencing the real thing.
He was mostly rendering imagination. Beyond the courtyard, he’d added absent flowers and plants, infusing gorgeous, romantic fantasy.
Light pierced a lush forest, slanting through branch gaps. Blooming vines climbed the pavilion columns, tiny elves danced like light specks. At the center, a black-haired, black-eyed youth sat at the round table—one hand lightly propping his cheek, the other slightly raised. An elf alighted deftly on his fingertip, singing softly.
The familiar face he saw daily in the mirror, clothes matching too.
The figure in the painting appeared somewhat languid, his expression calm and utterly indifferent. He sat in the pavilion without jarring against the scene at all, blending seamlessly into the dreamlike backdrop—yet he seemed wrapped in a layer of perennial ice that never melted. His downward gaze fell upon the sprite at his fingertips, or perhaps drifted to some distant place known only to him.
…It’s not “Yusser.”
Wen Jiang realized that the person depicted here was himself.
