“He loses control easily.”
Someone said that.
“Stability rating D, loss-of-control rate as high as 25%. Considering his growth potential, the overall risk assessment is…”
The voices drifted in fragments, muffled through the door, but the dull, protracted conversation was easy enough to peg as a waste of time. Wen Tianlu could almost picture his mother behind the door, seated in her chair, her brow furrowing slightly. The assistant standing beside her would then interject politely, urging the others to “get to the point.”
And so the rambler fell silent. After a brief pause, they said, “We recommend sending the young master to the Secret Tower.”
…Hated memories.
The darkness inevitably dredged up things from his childhood. Wen Tianlu exhaled heavily, his senses sharpening beyond his control.
The blackness before him was like thick ink, the silent deep sea, a narrow coffin. His pulse raced, his eardrums throbbed, and time seemed to rewind to when he was six, the first time Secret Tower staff came calling.
That man’s voice in conversation with his parents echoed right in his ears—every word rustling annoyingly, like rats in a sewer drain.
“If he enters the Secret Tower at this age, his control over his Supernatural Ability will surely rise to—”
Shut up.
In the abruptly extended silence—both long and fleeting—an ice spike suddenly jutted from the chair back before him. Wen Tianlu took his first step.
The adult who suggested sending him to the Secret Tower left, but didn’t take him along.
Restless pacing echoed through the room. After two laps, the man who was his father by family title stopped and asked, “What do you think?”
No one spoke. The woman questioned seemed too lazy to answer, but it didn’t matter—his father always guessed her thoughts. He softened his tone, chattering on to showcase his own gentle attentiveness, always putting her at the center: “If you think it’s too much trouble, just send Tianlu in tomorrow.”
“How can there be such shortsighted people?” His mother’s sigh conveyed her disdain as she countered, “What will others think?”
The Secret Tower had only come knocking once—not even a formal meeting between sides, no internal tower conference—and the Wen Family’s S-Grade child was shipped off. The Xie Family’s kid had it several times worse, yet they hadn’t budged an inch.
What would people think of the comparison?
Another silence. Someone defended, “We lack bargaining chips with the Secret Tower.”
Lame lie.
His teachers had all said that, among peers with S-Grade abilities, young master Wen’s control was already exemplary. Those rumored troublemakers—S-Grades who stirred up chaos even earlier—were still free outside. So why, if he was worse, did they have more leverage?
His mother thought the excuse didn’t hold water either. She let out a light, icy laugh—merciless mockery: “Don’t make excuses like that. It makes you sound stupid.”
She paused, then added, “And useless.”
The voices faded, then others chimed in with more suggestions, all aimed at solving the problem in the easiest, least troublesome way. Finally, his mother rose from her chair, her tone laced with undisguised impatience: “What’s really going on?”
All that pointless talk—and why had the Secret Tower come? Why had she abandoned an important meeting to fly back?
The room fell quiet. The butler spoke: “The young master triggered a minor cold snap in the collection room.”
No one was fatally hurt. Just two servants unlucky enough to fall unconscious from the chill, with some frostbite on their limbs—but they’d been treated. The young master had reined in his Supernatural Ability in time, preventing further damage. None of that mattered. The butler hesitated, then cut to the chase: “Three collectibles were destroyed. Probably beyond repair.”
And then?
The hated, replayed-a-thousand-times memory fragments flickered disjointedly in his mind. Wen Tianlu remembered what came next: at six, he’d lost control of his Supernatural Ability in the collection room, ruining a prized painting, a vase, and a delicate ornament that required specific temperatures. In the end, they locked him in the ancestral estate’s basement.
How to handle a crying child? Lock him in an empty house, let him scream and wail until he tired himself out.
How to handle an easily unstable child? Lock him in empty darkness, let him tremble and beg until he quieted.
Darkness—stifling, nauseating darkness surging from all sides. It churned his brain, crushed his chest, ravaged his senses.
The ringing in his ears intensified. He could almost see his father, down the long staircase, fawning over his mother as she looked down indifferently.
Then the iron door slammed shut, stealing the last sliver of light. The world held only him. Just him.
Wen Tianlu dug his nails into his palm and took a second step, then a third, into the dark.
Black.
So black.
So hungry, so thirsty.
So uncomfortable, so painful.
Breathing labored, limbs stiff, mind muddled, unable to move.
One day, two days, three…? Time lost meaning. When the confinement ended, the once-powerful child was frail, harmless—a weakness artificially forged. In those first months, a mere threat of a lightless place silenced him instantly; his ice melted away.
He became safe, controllable. But the Wen Family manor buzzed with whispers again. The adults, once endlessly debating his instability with furrowed brows, were now even more dissatisfied once it was “solved.”
“Which family’s S-Grade is like this? It’s just too…” Muttering, trailing off. When he’d been more stable than other S-Grades, no praise came. Now, Wen Tianlu heard the comparisons.
“…too weak.”
I’ll kill them all.
I should kill them all.
Before entering that damned tower, he should’ve turned the Gongguan into an ice cellar, unleashed a cold snap around him. Just a few steps in the dark, mere minutes—and the panic and fear had already evaporated, replaced by surging rage.
Crack—
The darkness meant to suppress him unreasoningly flipped into a catalyst accelerating his Supernatural Ability’s rampage. Ice spread underfoot, freezing chairs and steps, building thick layers. White frost breath escaped his lips; the theater’s temperature plunged inevitably lower.
What the hell—he—!
—”One more step.”
The sudden voice shattered the chaos, severing the cross-temporal memories. All the hazy figures vanished.
He no longer smelled the basement’s damp chill or heard bugs skittering in the dark. Wen Tianlu froze for a moment, dazed, realizing he was in the Gaotian Theater.
He’d always known where he was—it had just stopped mattering. Darkness made him think that way, like how crimes breed in the night, lightless black the cradle of blood and violence.
Silence all around. Ice sprouted thick underfoot, but he wasn’t alone. In the blackness, Wen Tianlu sensed Wen Jiang’s calm, faint breathing.
…How?
Given the state he’d been in, he shouldn’t hear or see anything…
…Right. Wen Tianlu’s sluggish thoughts turned. It was the Dramatic Stage effect.
It looked like a mere performance-type ability for others’ amusement, providing emotional payoff. But in truth, it ignored external environments, personal emotions, or thoughts—packaging immersion in captivating performance, forcing total, unshiftable “attention.”
It unreasonably seized sight, speech, self. Even in psychological pressure and emotional whirlpools, Wen Jiang’s words pierced clearly into Wen Tianlu’s mind.
One more step.
Hallucinations and echoes dissolved. Wen Tianlu lowered his gaze. Light hovered close—a lit circle on the floor, a small coin gleaming at its center.
“Well?” Wen Jiang asked flatly, his voice clear and distant, yet near: “Can’t you do it?”
…Childish taunt.
Gentler than his mother’s words, more caring than his father’s, stricter than the servants’ fake concern.
Acting?
“…If I can’t,” Wen Tianlu said, his voice hoarse, betraying his earlier disarray—which irked him. But pretending now, before Wen Jiang, seemed pointless.
So he continued, his tone overly saccharine and gentle: “What will you do then?”
A faint, barely catchable laugh echoed in the dark. Wen Jiang drawled back lazily: “Why not ask what happens if you do?”
Childish, sure—but his words were the fuse, tethering Wen Tianlu to “reality,” keeping him from sinking into the viscous black. Like a soothing melody calming frayed nerves.
Whether it was the Dramatic Stage* or not didn’t matter anymore. Wen Tianlu’s focus followed the pull to his words.
…
…
Wen Tianlu blurted instinctively: “Wen Jiang?”
No response.
White frost spread along the ground, temperature plummeting in an instant—then screeching to a halt. Irritation and tangled emotions were forcibly shoved down. Wen Tianlu closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, realizing his feelings were being toyed with.
What the hell…
Wen Jiang had just gone quiet—and he’d nearly wrecked the place?
What the hell.
The final step. Wen Tianlu stepped into the light, bent down, and clenched the coin tight in his fist.
“Come back.” Wen Jiang reminded him coolly, like a frisbee had to return properly to count as success.
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