Curtain Up
One of the hottest events at the Yanhai Art Festival, the drama competition, proceeded methodically and drew toward its close before anyone realized. The acts before Qingchi had all wrapped up. The previous group’s performance had been mediocre, and with the fatigue of back-to-back shows, many in the audience grew drowsy. The seats, once buzzing with chatter, had quieted considerably, with some whispering about whether to slip out early.
These moods rippled outward like waves on water, carrying the message to the next group on stage. Some performers were used to it; others lacked the sensitivity. Gao Mingcheng focused solely on his work. He gave the props one final check, breathed a sigh of relief once everything was confirmed in order, then started scanning for Wen Jiang.
He didn’t really have anything urgent to discuss with him—it was just a habitual reaction. Gao Mingcheng figured that was normal. Plenty of people on the student forums probably did the same.
After all, no one could wander freely into the Qingchi Theater’s backstage. The curious had always been legion, and Wen Jiang naturally topped the discussion lists.
The forums even had dedicated threads speculating on what club members did back there, only for others to roll their eyes: “What else? Backstage work is the same everywhere.” “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one.” “Did you even get into this school?” “Maybe go tour a theater and cool your head.”
Some took it in stride: “At least it’s more reasonable than that thread guessing how many cups of water WJ drinks a day.”
Gao Mingcheng remembered how the original post veered wildly off-topic, spawning spin-off threads for fantasies of backstage life after “interacting” with club members.
Like visiting your partner before or after their big scene. Or imagining yourself in the club, sharing the stage with him—where even Wen Jiang just breathing normally drew all eyes in the snippets.
Now that Gao Mingcheng had joined the Drama Club (off the books), he finally understood how it all ran. Reality was nowhere near as dramatic as the fantasies—actually more mundane than he’d expected.
No one clustered around Wen Jiang chattering nonstop. Mostly, everyone minded their own business. Wen Jiang, meanwhile, strolled leisurely around, chatting casually with whoever crossed his path.
On a side note, he’d even gotten some echoed praise from Wen Jiang about how he’d “sorted the data super fast” and “helped out big time.”
In a way, this felt… Gao Mingcheng pondered. Wen Jiang might actually be even more popular in the club than people imagined.
He moved closer to the stage and finally spotted Wen Jiang—just as the host’s voice droned the intro lines from the front. Wen Jiang had already changed into costume and was slipping on a pair of pure white gloves.
The white nobleman’s tailcoat hugged his figure, making him look even taller and more elegant. But his face held that same icy, indifferent expression. More than the rose-embossed sword at his waist or the sapphire brooch on his chest, he seemed suited to black attire—wielding a black-gold scepter inset with blood-red agate, a raven of ill omen perched on his shoulder.
But no matter. Gao Mingcheng felt no tension or stomach churn. Every Qingchi student knew Wen Jiang’s acting chops. As he lowered his hand, blinked once, and lifted his head again—no cue, no buildup—the impression simply shifted cleanly.
Polite applause followed as the crimson curtain closed. In the first act, the male and female leads would take the stage soon. Lu Jinghuai took a deep breath, shared a quick glance with Wen Jiang, then stepped behind the curtain.
Wen Jiang gave her a small wave with a smile, like he was born sunny and carefree. His peripheral vision caught Gao Mingcheng lurking nearby; he winked his right eye playfully, silent as ever—like the story’s carefree young prince stepping right out of the pages.
Lights up. Wen Jiang turned, hitting his mark with rehearsal-perfect timing, and stepped before the audience.
Mid-Performance
Lin Xun: “Hey, this one’s pretty good.”
Lin Xun: “I’ll watch a bit longer, then head backstage.”
Lin Xun: “Want me to record it for you?”
Jiang Hehu: “Annoying.”
Jiang Hehu: “No need.”
Jiang Hehu jabbed the send button hard, glaring at his phone screen in a foul mood. A moment later, the man beside him murmured, “Young Master.”
He handed over live surveillance footage. In the dim feed, smoke curled thick as several men puffed cigars and gambled. Chips piled like miniature mountains before them.
Looks like Ke Yuan shelled out plenty.
The man asked again: “Young Master, should we… contact Mr. Ke Yu?”
“That fool son he raised stirred up trouble,” Jiang Hehu cut him off, snapping irritably. “And now I have to go crawling to him?”
His anger hit blunt and fast, making the attendant’s heart skip. He bowed his head with a “Yes, Young Master” and fell silent.
Utterly stupid.
Jiang Hehu clicked his tongue, impatience etched on his face. Since last night, Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun had been lobbing passive-aggressive jabs his way. This dumb idea wasn’t even his—he hadn’t told Ke Yuan to do it!
He scowled at his phone again. The screen showed a private hack into the Gaotian Theater feed. Onstage, the beleaguered prince confronted the minister’s son—Wen Jiang and Ke Yuan both in frame.
Jiang Hehu watched for a few minutes, then switched away. His last messages with Wen Jiang dated to last night.
Jiang Hehu: I’ll handle the source.
Wen Jiang: Mm.
The attendant stayed mute, unsure if the young master’s capricious temper had eased or boiled hotter.
He didn’t dare glance at Jiang Hehu’s face—direct scrutiny might set off the Combat System esper mid-rage. He only heard the low mutter: “If Ke Yu shows, tell him to beg the Xie Family. See if he dares whine then.”
Washing his hands of the Ke kid entirely? Not that he’s important…
Jiang Hehu hopped out of the car. The attendant blinked, shelved his thoughts, and hurried after: “We’ve spotted four A-Ranks, five B-Ranks. The main door’s sealed with A-Rank metal solidification and B-Rank reinforcement. Young Master, do you need—”
“No need.” Jiang Hehu cracked his knuckles with a series of sharp cracks, rolling his wrists.
Ten minutes later, the sealed door to a certain basement room flew open with a brutal side kick.
Curtain Down
Lin Xun arrived backstage near the drama’s end.
No one batted an eye—not even the Drama Club members. It was like he belonged there. They didn’t stare him down with heavy gazes, but if he wanted to ask something, someone always anticipated and approached before he spoke.
Gao Mingcheng glanced at Lin Xun, then looked away like the rest. His thumb and forefinger fidgeted together unconsciously.
Something felt off.
For one, backstage buzzed unusually lively today. Before Lin Xun, Gao Mingcheng’s usual boss, Wen Tianlu, had shown up too. Spotting Gao Mingcheng, he’d curved his eyes in a smile and given a friendly nod.
Skipping the prime front-row seats mid-show for backstage? And with no urgent business. Wen Tianlu’s biggest “request” was a chair dragged stage-side so he could watch the performance seated.
And really, why…? Gao Mingcheng pressed his lips, worry mounting.
Point two: As audience members, how could they tear their eyes away so easily?
Wen Jiang’s performance was undeniably stellar. Qingchi Theater forbade recordings of his shows, so this flawless acting was a first for many. From costume and poise to expressions and lines—impeccable, jaw-dropping.
Gao Mingcheng had snuck peeks at the crowd: riveted. As an actor, Wen Jiang had nailed his duty. Just the finale climax left, and Gao Mingcheng was confident about that trophy.
But something was wrong. Totally unlike the rehearsals he remembered. The club president had noticed too—mid-break, he’d conferred quietly with Wen Jiang, then let him continue. Gao Mingcheng tried reading the president’s face, but the guy’s “smiling tiger” rep held firm.
Definitely missing something. Something uniquely Wen Jiang. Like…
A fitting metaphor hit: Wen Jiang’s acting now resembled an A-Rank esper—or even Super A-Grade.
No that willing-yet-oppressively-compelling pull. Proof? Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun waltzing in effortlessly.
It pleased every viewer perfectly… which made it not feel like Wen Jiang’s show.
Lin Xun asked the president casually where Wen Tianlu sat—warm, breezy vibe, like he’d impulsively dropped by for a stroll. Spot a peeker? Flash those pretty peach-blossom eyes in a dazzling grin.
When he mentioned needing a guide to Wen Tianlu, Lin Xun’s gaze swept subtly, landing on Ke Yuan in the corner.
Gao Mingcheng’s eyes followed discreetly.
Point three… That underclassman Ke Yuan was off. In the final showdown with Wen Jiang, he’d flubbed badly—but Wen Jiang improvised flawlessly to cover. Afterward, flushed-faced Ke Yuan retreated to the corner, back turned, silent, who-knows-what-ing.
Ke Yuan stared at the time.
Nothing else. He didn’t even notice Lin Xun. Hands clenched on his phone’s edges, he watched the numbers tick. Time slipped away, nearing the finale.
He could practically envision Wen Jiang’s steps—that infuriating talent honed precise in late rehearsals, zero deviation.
Then his own screw-up replayed. He bit his lower lip.
The props team’s clouds caught him off-guard, making him hesitate over Wen Jiang’s safety. That chaos tanked his focus, snowballing into worse acting… culminating in the botched final line.
Wen Jiang handled it seamlessly—like the prince incarnate, catching it with the perfect words and moves.
So ironic. Ke Yuan had agonized half the show. After that effortless bailout? Humiliating exit amid whispers. His own crew didn’t rally. He couldn’t voice the rigging issue now.
Just a little longer.
Almost there.
“Ya.”
The digits flipped. Lin Xun grinned, slinging an arm over Ke Yuan’s shoulder in bro-hug fashion, then leaned in softly: “Take me over there?”
