So normal.
Wen Tianlu lounged casually in the wings behind the stage, watching the Qingchi Drama Club’s performance from the side.
Onstage, after enduring all sorts of trials and tribulations, the young prince finally achieved enlightenment. He cast aside his pure white rose sword and turned resolutely toward the darkness.
A song like heavenly music rose softly. The duties borne by the prince were the dawn’s first light and the wandering gold, and the goddess would guide him free from the darkness’s chains, up the high ladder to meet the divine.
This was the grand climax of the entire play, and the audience watched in tense anticipation.
Such a normal reaction—so normal that Wen Tianlu couldn’t help but sigh. The theater’s audience was in almost the exact same state as he had been when watching Wen Jiang perform.
Was the current show good? By any normal standard, of course it was.
An excellent script and vocals, paired with smooth, natural performances from empathetic actors. If Wen Jiang could maintain this level through the end, plenty of people might seek him out afterward, offering olive branches and a chance to climb higher.
No denying it—this was an excellent, captivating play that delighted its audience.
Proof that Wen Jiang hadn’t gone all out yet.
Recalling last night’s events, Wen Tianlu’s gaze darkened. The stage’s momentary dimness wouldn’t throw him off. He stared at the second-best actor in his eyes for a moment, then his gaze shifted naturally. Spotting Lin Xun, the corners of his mouth lifted, and he said with a gentle smile, “You even brought him along.”
“Yeah,” Lin Xun replied, his arm slung over Ke Yuan, who was two heads shorter than him. He arched a brow and teased, “I was afraid I’d wander around blindly and not find you, so I just asked him to show me the way.”
The two shared a tacit understanding not to bring up last night’s spat. The atmosphere between them looked perfectly amicable—perhaps thanks to Ke Yuan. That spark of friction hadn’t truly ignited before Ke Yuan’s meticulously prepared stage disaster disrupted it.
Ke Yuan’s face was ashen, his wide eyes filled with panic and fear. Lin Xun seemed friendly enough, but the grip pinning him down was terrifyingly strong, making Ke Yuan’s shoulder ache. Standing beside him, he looked like a shivering quail, tears welling in his eyes, utterly pitiable.
Wen Tianlu sat in his chair, eyeing him with interest under the lights. He soon chuckled, his eyes curving knowingly. “You made him ‘shut up.'”
Lin Xun acknowledged it with a hum, then added casually as if it were the most natural thing, “No need for him to talk anyway.”
【Forbidden Fruit】—it could arbitrarily dissect others’ abilities, violently excise and reshape them. Ke Yuan had never seen Lin Xun use his supernatural ability before. Compared to the visibly aggressive S-Grade ability users around him, Lin Xun seemed quite approachable.
But they were the same.
They were the same! Panic and screams couldn’t become real sounds. Ke Yuan heard Lin Xun lean in from above, as if sharing a fun discovery. “So your ability really is bound to your voice. No wonder even your normal speech sounds so good.”
An ability fused with the body—quick to activate, simple to control, mutually influencing each other. 【Angel’s Voice】 was bound to his vocal organs, so excising the source physically silenced him. Lin Xun patted Ke Yuan’s shoulder affectionately, consoling him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to talk again soon. You won’t end up mute.”
Ke Yuan opened his mouth, tears rolling silently from his eyes, his gaze pleading. Wen Tianlu let out a soft laugh at the sight and asked, “Want to explain something?”
“What a shame—you had your chance.” Wen Tianlu drawled slowly. “From last night until now, wasn’t that enough time? You only have yourself to blame now.”
There were countless brutal ways to solve problems, but Wen Jiang had chosen the most conservative path. Over the looming lamp rig above, his top priority was for the Drama Club’s show to complete intact and successfully reach its end.
For that reason, Wen Tianlu’s assistance had been deprioritized. His ice would mess with the grid’s prop rigging and the stage’s overall aesthetic—Wen Jiang wasn’t starring in some Frozen knockoff, after all.
And for that same reason, they’d had to hide it from Ke Yuan, lest he realize the jig was up early, panic, and ruin the Drama Club’s efforts—though he’d still screwed up anyway.
In that time, Ke Yuan hadn’t had a change of heart, as expected. He’d lost his last shot at forgiveness.
Had there really been a chance?
Ke Yuan gazed at Lin Xun and Wen Tianlu through his tears. Their favoritism toward Wen Jiang filled him with dread. More than petty “rage over a lover,” he sensed in them the cruelty of savoring the slow dissection of their meal with knife and fork, all justified.
The chance, perhaps, had only come from Wen Jiang himself. Tears streaming, Ke Yuan watched the shifting lights and shadows onstage, instinctively turning his head away—only for Lin Xun to wrench it back the next second.
“Hey, you have to watch. What’s the point of bringing you otherwise?” Lin Xun’s voice darkened, as if the act had easily provoked him. But then it took on a faint note of rapture. “Keep your eyes wide open and see it for yourself. Then you’ll understand how incredible this is.”
Onstage, the music swelled higher, shifting from subdued tension to urgent release. Lu Jinghuai’s song rang through the theater. The black-haired, black-eyed prince claimed his dawn.
Lin Xun’s pupils burned with the lead actor’s image. In places Wen Jiang couldn’t see, his fervor seemed far beyond what the man imagined. Lin Xun counted down the time. “When the lamp rig falls—”
A faint noise stirred in the dark corner, like someone too panicked knocking something over. Wen Tianlu chuckled, drawing out his words. “No hiding—”
“You think you can hide? Come out. You know my temper.”
The shadow trembled. One or two seconds later, Gao Mingcheng emerged, face deathly pale. Out of curiosity and unease, he’d secretly followed Lin Xun here after all—and neither Lin Xun nor Wen Tianlu seemed surprised by his arrival.
They’d noticed him from the start.
Gao Mingcheng shakily adjusted his glasses—only making them more crooked—and stammered, “The lamp rig… what does it mean when it falls?”
“That cloud is super heavy, that cloud…” His tension had nothing to do with being caught. After a deep breath, Gao Mingcheng seemed to piece it together. He rushed forward, gesturing wildly in a shrill voice far higher than usual. “We have to stop it—with abilities, or yell cut! Wen Jiang will get crushed!”
His warning fell on deaf ears. Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun just watched him silently, offering no explanation—like watching a squeaking rat in a ridiculous clown show.
Ah, he’d even heard Lin Xun say “lamp rig falls” himself. What was he hoping for? Gao Mingcheng finally realized, his face paling further, despair flashing in his eyes. He spun to dash backstage and shout a warning—only to nearly trip. Somehow, his shoe soles had frozen to the floor.
Lin Xun’s gaze had returned to the stage. “Don’t get in the way.” Wen Tianlu added mildly. He still had things to do, like staying put to handle any surprises. With patience, he explained, “Doing nothing is how you don’t ruin Wen Jiang’s plan.”
How can they say that! But as Wen Tianlu predicted, it was futile. Gao Mingcheng wasn’t listening. Furious and frantic, eyes on Wen Jiang turning onstage, he yanked free of his shoes and bolted toward the stage.
Too slow. Boring, Wen Tianlu thought idly, removing his earring.
Three steps right.
“Here it comes,” Lin Xun whispered.
Two steps forward.
At center stage, under the spotlight, before every eye.
“Screeech—”
As the actor took position, the piercing anomalous sound rang out first.
The edges corroded and broken, the grid rig holding lights and props began to tilt. It collapsed from the right, a scalp-numbing crash echoing in the dark as falling fixtures snapped cables. Sparks of blue electricity crackled. The massive “dark cloud” plummeted toward the actor’s head, ripping everyone’s focus from the show.
“What was that sound?”
“Up top!”
“It’s falling!”
The theater erupted in chaos. The audience snapped awake, panicking at the realization. A scream ignited the riot, heads whipping toward exits.
Worry, fear, panic—clueless, thoughts frozen, desperate to flee. Some covered their eyes, some scanned wildly, some turned from the stage, some tried filming to post online—but
—who permitted that?
Pressure exploded outward in an instant, blanketing the theater—power surging to levels never seen in Qingchi Theater. Like the oppression when Xie Qi and Wen Tianlu clashed, blanketing an entire hotel. An S-Grade Lifestyle System ability user unveiled his stage.
Lin Xun let out a soft sigh of admiration. Wen Tianlu’s pupils contracted sharply; he shot up from his chair.
Fierce winds whipped through the sealed theater, howling down the tiered seats, scattering across the stage. The black metal rig and useless lights shattered in a blink, the holy temple backdrop collapsing into floating rubble chunks.
Dawn burst forth—the victorious prince cloaked in first light, standing amid the old shrine’s ruins. The timed cloud clusters blazed to life. Music hit its peak, Lu Jinghuai’s song soaring holy and triumphant with the radiant spectacle, hands clasped at her chest, unwavering as promised.
No other noise filled the theater. Every audience member fell silent.
All prior actions permitted, all prior freedoms to look away, chatter idly—granted.
But now, all self-will erased. Even as buildings crumbled, danger loomed, stray thoughts swirled—you would
【Watch Me】
The formless, immense pressure stretched through the theater, stripping gazes, speech, actions. The instinct screaming “danger” twisted swiftly into rapturous zeal.
What is this? The brain demanded.
This is a blessing. The brain knew.
The world’s most brilliant painting? The most enchanting melody? What was art? Where lay its limit? Some said art’s peak made one willing to die for it.
Before pure beauty, absolute allure, people forgot suffering, peril. Amid collapsing halls, they stood heedless; riddled with blades, nerves screaming, oblivious. They halted, drowned content in the mind’s sea, learning only to listen and behold.
Yes—art could please an audience, or conquer it.
Seizing every sense—formless, tasteless, traceless. Like enforced virtual dominion, like a hundred tentacles sprawling through space, like a soul-shaking vista too blinding.
Transcending human norms, human performance limits—an S-Grade, focal point of myriad gazes. Its true nature: an invisible monster.
Gao Mingcheng held his breath unawares, staring blankly at the stage. He was one step from emerging from the shadows into the crowd’s view.
…So beautiful.
In that endless-seeming gaze, as if countless days and nights passed thus, he thought hazily, ashamed at his words’ poverty, unable to capture the beauty.
Was it the epic tale’s grandeur, or the peerless human beauty? Everything exceeded imagination. The figure at stage center did nothing—yet needed to do nothing. Gao Mingcheng watched his black hair sway in the wind, his white-gloved hand extended, his robes billowing, his flawless face untouched by blemish.
Buoyed by the turbulent airflow, Gao Mingcheng floated amid the scattered debris suspended in mid-air. There, he caught sight of the prince who had seized divine authority. The prince cast a light glance in his direction.
Those eyes gleamed bright and warm, yet they carried a faint chill—a detached scrutiny from another true soul buried deep within the body, unmasked now that the stage role had faded. The gaze flickered away in an instant. Having endured every trial and torment, the prince broke into a smile tinged with echoes of his former innocence.
He pressed his index finger to his lips and mouthed a smile at Gao Mingcheng.
“Shh—”
The curtain was due to fall.
Go back. You don’t belong on this stage.
