Fifty Minutes Before Opening
An excellent actor had to learn how to reasonably schedule their sleep time.
Of course, Wen Jiang probably wouldn’t end up as just a simple actor in the future—that would be a waste for an S-Grade, and it likely meant he’d end up working under Lin Xun. But he’d already mastered that unique trick for highly efficient rest.
After closing his eyes to rest for a bit, Wen Jiang opened them, crossed his fingers, and stretched his arms forward in a lazy yawn, shaking off the last traces of drowsiness. When he straightened his back, he looked fully revived, ready to start his final pre-stage preparation.
Lin Wenzhi had named it the lead actor’s ritual patrol of hype-up affirmations.
In some competitive events, athletes shouted slogans and psyched themselves up before going on stage. Their Drama Club had a similar cherished backstage ritual.
By convention, it started with his golden partner, the closest one—Lin Wenzhi. Wen Jiang glanced over at her silently, his expression cool and distant, radiating a mysterious encouraging aura that only good friends could detect.
“…You gotta hype me up too? The usual?” Lin Wenzhi blinked, lightly patting her shoulders with her rolled-up script, accepting it quickly. “Alright then.”
Who didn’t love hearing praise from the school’s big celebrity? She cleared her throat, brewed for a moment, and said, “I’m a total genius for writing a script like this.”
Wen Jiang nodded flatly in agreement. “You’re a genius.”
“Aw, that hits just right.” Lin Wenzhi giggled twice, the tension in her heart oddly dissipating. Seeing him still staring, she teased, “Want the fancy poetic one too? That one’s tooth-achingly cringy.”
The playwright built the world; the actor brought it to life. Lin Wenzhi cupped her hand to her mouth, lowering her voice to recite a line from their early collab script, spoken by the perfect duo: “We are each other’s tools, each other’s masterpieces.”
“Oof,” she winced right after, baring her teeth—even though she’d written it herself back then, saying it out loud was pure cringe. “No idea how you delivered that with a straight face.”
What’s wrong with an actor nailing their lines? Wen Jiang stood his ground righteously. “I think so too.”
“Then you better nail your performance,” Lin Wenzhi said, pocketing her phone screen with a final distant glance at Lu Jinghuai. She turned to him. “It’s all on you.”
“Mm.” Wen Jiang looked at her. “I’ll nail it.”
A few underclassmen girls and boys stood nearby, chattering like sparrows, sneaking peeks at them now and then. Lin Wenzhi recognized them—they’d sided with her and Wen Jiang in the lead actor contention earlier. She lowered her hand and gave them a warm, curved smile.
The crowd grew livelier, nudging each other until, just before Wen Jiang moved on, they shoved forward a blushing boy in costume. The underclassman nervously straightened his bangs, like he was already stressing his upcoming stage time. “Uh, they say… at this time, we can talk to the seniors? I-Is that okay?”
“…”
Lin Wenzhi couldn’t hold it in and turned away with a pfft, bursting into laughter.
Wen Jiang said calmly, “We actually talk to people every day.”
Lin Wenzhi doubled over, laughing even harder. Wen Jiang’s face stayed deadpan as he savored it internally, satisfied—this was his best quip of the day.
The boy’s face turned shrimp-red. The ones behind him grinned, frowned, or facepalmed, all wearing that “disappointed in his untapped potential” look. Lin Wenzhi’s shoulders shook with laughter; she got what he meant. Once she recovered, she held up one finger to bail him out. “One sentence each. Hype yourself up, and Wen Jiang will back you.”
The group behind him lit up first, buzzing with “Whoa, it’s real,” “The legend’s true,” “I joined the club for this.” They shuffled forward, spontaneously queuing behind him. The second in line pinched the still-flailing boy’s waist. He jolted. “I-I’m really good at playing ministers!”
Wen Jiang’s gaze sharpened (looking no different from usual) but didn’t back him. “You’re playing a guard later.”
“…” The boy’s momentum deflated into a mournful pout. “Oh… uh, can I go again?”
The line erupted in good-natured laughter. In his peripheral vision, Wen Jiang spotted Ke Yuan standing farthest back. He pursed his lips, then turned to chat and laugh with someone else.
Looks normal enough. He should get through his part fine. Drama was a whole—every actor, no matter the role size or type, could tank the whole show if they slipped.
Wen Jiang withdrew his gaze smoothly and told the boy, “Relax. You’ll be great no matter what you’re playing.”
Forty Minutes Before Opening
With the young actors hyped, Wen Jiang sauntered toward his grade-mates.
Their female lead always got a bout of nerves before stage time. Unsurprisingly, he found Lu Jinghuai with storm clouds over her head, next to the mildly smiling club president.
Lu Jinghuai wore a beautiful white gown like lilac, her brows knotted in unending worry. She murmured, “I’m done for.”
“Mm-hmm.” The president was used to it, treating club members like a pack of (deeply problematic) adorable fledglings with mildly cheerful warmth. “Wanna grab a cookie then?”
It didn’t help. She looked even more tense. “B-But I’m going on stage soon. What if my stomach acts up and I puke?”
Aw, what a cute little deer. Always frets like this before curtain. “Mm-hmm,” the president rolled smoothly. “How about some water?”
What if I need the bathroom mid-performance? Lu Jinghuai twisted her fingers anxiously. Staring at the president’s beaming smile, she hesitated, then timidly asked, “A-Are you… even comforting me at all…?”
“How could I not?” The president said righteously. Spotting Wen Jiang approach, he perked up more, roping him in. “Wen Jiang thinks Jinghuai’s amazing too, right?”
In the midst of ritual hype, Wen Jiang echoed, “Mm.”
The words didn’t reach Lu Jinghuai’s ears. Her looks were strikingly vibrant, but her personality stayed shy and timid—innately self-doubting and yielding on everything but one thing, like a squishy dumpling anyone could poke. She sighed, “I’m miles behind everyone. They’re all better than me…”
Wen Jiang cut off her spiral expertly, going straight for the kill. “Singing too?”
“…” Lu Jinghuai, bearer of [Heavenly Sound], averted her eyes. After seconds of silence, she mumbled dejectedly, “Well… that’s definitely my best thing…”
The president choked back a laugh bubbling up his throat.
That’s why Ke Yuan couldn’t crush her the usual way. “You’re the best,” Wen Jiang reassured. “Sing it all the way through—you know best how it goes.”
It matched the text Wen Jiang had sent last night: Don’t choke. Sing your way. Lu Jinghuai glanced at his steady eyes and nodded faintly.
Thirty Minutes Before Opening
Gao Mingcheng squatted behind a massive prop, circled up with others. As an on-call logistics helper, he’d been working props lately.
Qingchi’s Drama Club had tons of applicants, but few made it in. Backstage forbade outsiders—this was Gao Mingcheng’s first real glimpse of pre-show ops. The vibe was way more fun and chill than he’d imagined.
…Or maybe ’cause it was props. Actors were stressing; this crew? Zero tension.
Props folks were like the Drama Club’s internal sub-clique—heads-down makers, drama-oblivious, perpetually out of the loop. That’s why Gao Mingcheng felt this weird kinship—they were as clueless about club gossip as he, the newbie, was.
Competition was nearing Qingchi’s turn. Actors came by: hyping mates, brooding solo, or chilling chats. Gao Mingcheng remembered one clearest—Ke Yuan, underclassman. Reason? Jiang Hehu’s cousin. That alone gave him indigestion.
But the kid was nice. His Supernatural Ability [Angel’s Voice] made talking to him feel cozy. He’d geeked over their new props, hitting the handmade crew’s sweet spot—they’d eagerly demoed the surprise, basking in his “awesome.”
Gao Mingcheng thought Ke Yuan seemed stiff, probably nerves, chatting to unwind. Once gone, they huddled like now. The senior before him lowered his voice, pointing at a crate in their circle. “Hey, this stuff’s wild.”
Inside: brooches galore—hearts, diamonds, teardrops, plants, animals, all styles. Uniform blue stone. Gao Mingcheng didn’t recognize it, but it screamed pricey.
“Nice Sea Heart Stones,” the underclassman to his left beamed. “Handicraft Club at No. 1 Middle School sold ’em today, right? Wear one awhile, see how others picture you in their hearts.”
Price tag flashed zeros in Gao Mingcheng’s mind. Drama Club’s class gaps weren’t brutal, but moments like this slapped reminders: This is Qingchi.
“That mystical?” The same-year to his right dangled a strand. “What’s the trick? Ability-infused? Mental illusion plus Lifestyle System extraction… stable mix?”
“Try it and see.” The lead senior grinned. “Bought one for everyone. We’ll track accuracy later.”
Gao Mingcheng glanced left-right, stuck in the middle, and blurted, “Uh, why are we squatting to talk?”
His words hit like thunder, snapping the props crew awake. Lead Senior #1 smacked his forehead. “Oh yeah. Habit.”
Why the habit? Gao Mingcheng bit his tongue.
“You don’t know,” Senior #2 grinned beside him. “Our ritual: hide surprises till showtime, swap props last-second. Like this—”
He patted the fluffy cloud prop they’d shown Ke Yuan—meant to stealth-replace the flat cardboard ones. “Sneak it up there, boom…”
Gao Mingcheng eyed the figure behind him, then tactfully said, “Probably won’t work.”
“Why not?” Senior #2 arched a brow, spooking him. “Our swap speed is—”
“Speed like what?” Wen Jiang asked calmly from behind.
The circle scattered with a whoosh. Gao Mingcheng adjusted his glasses, stunned—in a blink, he was the only one squatting. The rest played casual: sky-gazers, ground-starters.
“…Hey, Wen Jiang, when’d you get here?” Senior #1 recovered first, turning with a stiff scold. “Sneak up like that? Scary much.”
I meant to. Wen Jiang thought blankly.
Comedy gold, right? Perfect timing.
“Ahem, anyway, check this cloud.”
Why can’t I boss him around when I’m the senior? The senior cleared his throat, demoing their hidden masterpiece. “You’re third to know early, after prez and Ke Yuan. Way more vivid than cardboard, huh?”
Wen Jiang silently lowered his head for a glance at those hefty cloud clusters. He debated whether to point out how blatantly obvious they were—anyone but Ke Yuan probably wouldn’t even bother asking, already numb to your antics.
The people around shot him occasional sidelong looks. Actors need a pep talk before hitting the stage. What about the props crew?
“……” Wen Jiang gave his routine affirmation. “Mm. Very lifelike.”
If they were just big, that’d be one thing… He bent down and rummaged through one of the clouds for a moment until he found a decent grip. He gave it an experimental lift—and dropped it after two seconds.
This thing weighs a goddamn barbell!
How is it this heavy? What other surprises are you hiding?
“Hey, we added some internal effects,” the senior defended at once. The props team knew damn well how heavy their clouds were, but it was a necessary trade-off. As long as it stayed put on the rack through the whole act, who cared?
“It’s got a timer for color changes,” the senior went on, brimming with justification. “Last scene, everything’s dark around it—it blends right in. Then boom, climax hits, lights flare up, and it glows bright with them. Perfect for that burst-of-heavenly-light effect you wanted. We even tested it with the club president. Spot-on, right?”
The others nearby nodded in silent agreement.
Wen Jiang echoed faintly, “Perfect.”
Last night’s sim run, I figured my odds of staying safe were solid even if the lamp rig came crashing down. But swap in one of these bricks today? Escape chance drops at least thirty percent if it falls.
Good thing I knew about the rack’s glitch ahead of time.
