Most of the time, Qingchi turned a blind eye to the hierarchies among its students.
Of course, on the surface, the school always preached fairness, impartiality, and equal treatment for all. They had anonymous complaint boxes, mediation rooms, and even held regular internal exchange events. But class divisions arose naturally from human gatherings. Even without interference, students spontaneously sorted themselves into ranks and territories based on their behavior, ability scores, and vastly differing family backgrounds.
Within this system, the hierarchy—or discrimination chain—tied to Supernatural Abilities could be simply divided into two strands: higher ranks superior to lower ones, and the Combat System superior to all other departments.
The higher the rank of a Supernatural Ability, the stronger the holder’s physical qualities tended to be. These abilities were also more direct and violent, easily inflicting mental pressure on lower-ranked innocents just by being used. Looking across historical distributions of abilities, the proportion held by the Combat System grew ever larger the higher you climbed, practically becoming synonymous with elite ranks.
So, could an S-Class ability from the Lifestyle System earn equal respect from peers? Gao Mingcheng wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t optimistic about the answer.
At least in his personal view, those B-rank Combat System ability users always acted arrogant. The seniors he knew often said that discrimination among A-rank abilities showed no improvement whatsoever—only worsened. There had even been a viciously worded post on the student forums titled So, what’s the real difference between D-rank and A-rank Lifestyle abilities? It shot to the top of the front page within two hours, and Gao Mingcheng still remembered many of the arrogant comments inside.
S-Class was quietly treated as “off the charts” amid the arguments.
Qingchi only had enough same-year S-Class Supernatural Ability users to count on one hand—fewer than ten in total. They took cultural classes with their assigned homerooms, most ability classes alongside top-scoring A-rank students, and a few electives they could skip at will since spots were always reserved just for them. They enjoyed openly acknowledged privileges.
But… Gao Mingcheng stared at the “Esper Training (A)” course, open only to A-rank and above, then glanced at the afternoon schedule: “Practical Combat Training.” After mulling it over, he couldn’t help turning to the person beside him with a curious question: “What does Wen Jiang usually do in classes like this?”
Wen Jiang, who was leading him to the training field, admitted frankly: “Watch from the sidelines.”
…Yeah, that made sense. Gao Mingcheng adjusted his black-rimmed glasses as his stomach twisted faintly with illusory cramps from nerves and pressure. His next question slipped out: “Are you close with those people?”
He regretted it the moment it left his mouth, lips pressing tight. This topic might be too sharp. Wen Jiang’s social circle at the “top” was a mystery—forums were full of rumors, but none backed by solid evidence. Maybe the other guy hated being probed about it.
Wen Jiang’s stride didn’t falter. He fell silent, realizing he couldn’t even pin down who “those people” referred to.
Considering no one at school seemed to harbor a deep grudge against him, he opted for a vague reply before Gao Mingcheng could backpedal: “So-so.”
The casual tone carried a clear, cool edge that somehow didn’t feel distant. Gao Mingcheng’s heart settled; he knew this stemmed from the natural affinity between Lifestyle System abilities. Those single-minded combat maniacs couldn’t appreciate the artistry of lifestyle skills, but to fellow Lifestyle users like them, rank differences stood out crystal clear.
Lifestyle System ability holders were even more “cliquey.” Their fields often overlapped, making them the faction most devoted to mutual aid and cooperation. Gao Mingcheng recalled the brief message he’d received, growing more convinced of his hunch.
Approaching Wen Jiang had been the right call. He wasn’t naive enough to expect permanent protection—just safe passage through the next class… But just how “strong” was Wen Jiang, really?
If Wen Jiang couldn’t “beat them into submission,” what then if conflict arose? This was the one thing Gao Mingcheng couldn’t figure out.
Wen Jiang couldn’t figure it out either.
In truth, he hadn’t even sorted through how the current situation had come about.
Gao Mingcheng: a Student Council member with a B-rank Lifestyle ability, Electronic Data, tasked with gathering student intel. Rumor had it he’d likely rise to A-rank in the next evaluation.
Most importantly, his chat profile pic was bright red.
That afternoon, this prime suspect had paced back and forth in front of him three or four times, frequently unscrewing his water bottle for sips, eyes flicking his way now and then—yet stubbornly silent. Only after the last cultural class did he finally plant himself in front of Wen Jiang, tone earnest but vague: “…Wanna head over together?”
…Head where? For what? Not a scrap of useful info?
Wen Jiang went poker-faced for a few seconds, pulled up his schedule, and stalled by showing the long-skipped Esper Training class: “Got one after.”
“Mm!” Gao Mingcheng’s eyes lit up instantly. He nodded vigorously, relief washing over him as he smiled at Wen Jiang: “Yeah, that’s the one. Let’s go then.”
And that’s how it ended up like this.
Not entirely clueless, at least. Halfway there, Wen Jiang realized the guy was on duty. Gao Mingcheng had a Student Council pass—he could’ve entered the training field alone without an S-Class escort.
Practical Combat Training split into solo and duo matches, with several possibly running simultaneously. Each required logging participants’ basics, saving footage, calculating outcomes, and pre- and post-match physical checks. All that data funneled into the terminal network, where Electronic Data turned it into neat, real-time reports almost instantly.
A highly practical Lifestyle ability was like a brick—move it where needed—with the perfect excuse of “this counts as your ability training.” Gao Mingcheng didn’t fight, nor did the spectating Wen Jiang; to avoid awkward silence, he picked up the conversation: “Isn’t watching from the side kinda boring?”
Or dangerous? Gao Mingcheng offered: “Can you apply to skip, Wen Jiang?”
“No big deal.” Wen Jiang glanced at the guy’s sincere expression, pausing just right: “I can skip these. Teachers don’t care.”
The school couldn’t craft a fully custom schedule for its sole S-Class Lifestyle student, nor was it rigid enough to deny him combat credits. They just kept his access open. Per the drama instructor, observing their fights—how they wielded limbs—benefited honing his own acting finesse.
Gao Mingcheng caught on. He wasn’t great at hiding emotions. Wen Jiang glanced over to see brief confusion morph into realization, his gaze warming with enthusiasm.
“Thanks.”
Clearly, Wen Jiang “specially” attending for him had touched him deeply, boosting trust considerably.
Gao Mingcheng’s shoulders eased, words tumbling faster: “Didn’t think anyone would see that complaint post. I don’t usually vent like that at work… Sigh, mainly, I don’t get along with some of the A-rankers inside.”
He flashed Wen Jiang a shy smile: “With you here, I feel way safer.”
A celebrity with top-tier ability potential, constantly buzzing in discussions—then out of nowhere, messaging him two days ago. It had startled Gao Mingcheng. Staring at Wen Jiang’s words, suspicion flickered then vanished, replaced by the personal post he’d just deleted.
A 300-word emo rant, raw and heartfelt, about wanting to die at the thought of working the A-Rank Arena. Late night funk was normal, especially under real pressure.
Jiang Hehu would definitely be there. The guy had vowed to beat him on sight. Just imagining sharing space with him that long left Gao Mingcheng fidgety.
…Could he peek at the guy’s chat logs?
Wen Jiang looked away, tentatively grasping that Gao Mingcheng saw him as a safety guarantee.
By sheer fluke, he’d picked up a temporary lackey. He had no idea what beef the lackey had with the A-Rank Arena crowd, but it’d driven him to crave backup—and under Absolute Trust, he’d linked Qian Lang’s message to his inner wish.
Wen Jiang stood at the Training Field entrance. As Gao Mingcheng pulled out his pass, he stopped him: “Don’t use that.”
Gao Mingcheng froze. Meeting the guy’s puzzled gaze, Wen Jiang extended a hand: “You need clearance. Lend me your phone.”
“Huh? Oh, sure.” Gao Mingcheng got it—better than “Student Council grunt helping the teacher,” “S-Class escort” carried real weight. He handed it over, unlocked the screen himself, compliant and natural, not peering over—no qualms with an S-Class’s spur-of-the-moment request.
Wen Jiang took Gao Mingcheng’s phone, fiddled with it for show. The guy didn’t know his class history or permissions, seemed unfamiliar with the A-Rank Training Field—probably clueless on S-Class escort protocols too.
On his own phone, Wen Jiang submitted the entry request for him, approval pinging instantly. On Gao Mingcheng’s, he just opened the chat list and went straight to their thread.
The blank white interface held only two messages from “Wen Jiang” at the top.
Wen Jiang: Don’t be sad
Wen Jiang: I’ll go with you
Perfect. Utterly useless. Wen Jiang blanked his expression, locked the screen, and handed it back.
If Qian Lang were here, lightbulb might flash: This was me reminiscing about dates with Huo Xia Tong—brain overflowed, but hands only typed the essence: concise, poignant, moving.
tantamount to saying nothing.
Wen Jiang pressed his hand to the entrance display. Blue light flashed, and the doors slid open silently, swiftly. The air exploded into clamor and chaos, invisible agitation swirling overhead. Gao Mingcheng’s breath hitched.
The vast Training Field felt suffocatingly cramped, unable to contain these normally civil high-rank ability users. His ears rang with dull thuds of abilities or bodies slamming the field—muffled through triple noise-canceling glass—plus mechanical score announcements booming through the central hall.
A wave of mental pressure hit, dazing him.
It wasn’t agonizing, just sudden; he needed to adjust. Gao Mingcheng deep-breathed, bending at the waist, sweat dripping from his jaw to the dry floor.
Then a cool hand settled on his back, palm pressing through fabric along his spine—like glacial wind melting into him, severing the external pressure. His breathing eased.
He startled, head turning. Blurry vision caught Wen Jiang’s hem. Gao Mingcheng’s throat bobbed, suddenly recalling that casual “Watch from the sidelines.”
Wen Jiang gave his back a reassuring pat and stepped into the Training Field first.
