He found him.
The figure that had always lingered deep in his memories perfectly overlapped with the person before his eyes.
The suspicion that had arisen last night was verified today. The earring-shaped Suppressor was gripped tightly in his hand, a faint sting prickling his palm, but Wen Tianlu remained oblivious, still staring fixedly at the stage.
With the mental protection of the Suppressor deactivated, he finally etched the other’s appearance clearly into his mind this time.
A clatter sounded nearby as something hit the floor. Lin Xun had released Ke Yuan at some point, and the other man’s legs gave out, sending him crumpling straight to the ground.
His pain receptors hadn’t yet recovered. Ke Yuan’s mind was a blank slate. His mouth hung slightly open, tear tracks still streaking his face, as he stared vacantly ahead in a daze. Beside him, Lin Xun suddenly squatted down, burying his face in his hands with a long sigh.
“Ha…”
So terrifying.
Far beyond anything he’d sensed before. His eyes, capable of seeing what ordinary people couldn’t, had finally captured a far more distinct trace this time.
Like a flower? A halo? A jellyfish? A thousand writhing tentacles?
The Dramatic Stage manifested in artistic form, so the traces reflected that trait, delivering a secondary visual shock.
His brain rationally dissected the principles on one hand, while instinctively replaying the scene over and over in his mind on the other.
An indescribable, ineffable existence—dangerous yet resplendent. Beneath that colossal body filling every corner of the space, amid the cascading tendrils of shimmering light, was Wen Jiang’s indifferent glance cast his way.
…So beautiful.
A unnatural flush crept across his cheeks and ears. Fortunately, no one noticed his lapse. Lin Xun let out a low chuckle into his palms, muttering devoutly, “Muse.”
The curtain fell, and the entire theater fell silent enough to hear a pin drop. A few minutes later, the audience snapped out of their trance, gradually recovering their voices.
From incoherent gasps to hushed murmurs, then bursts of realization followed by urgent, vigorous applause, escalating into fervent cheers. The sound waves built higher and higher until the theater erupted into a belated storm of noise, the crowd’s voices nearly shattering the roof. A few staggered toward the backstage area, only to be mercilessly blocked by the isolation doors.
At the same time, in some underground chamber, Jiang Hehu lounged atop a “cushion” piled from three or four men he’d beaten down. He watched the video broadcast on his phone. The small room was littered with wreckage from demolished tables and chairs, shards of glass, scattered bloodstains, and marks from Supernatural Ability clashes.
Those around him efficiently cleared the area. Jiang Hehu silently eyed the screen, his refined features appearing almost cute and docile in repose—worlds apart from the man who’d just been smashing someone’s head against the wall.
The secondary footage lacked the live impact. After a moment, Jiang Hehu clicked his tongue, pocketed his phone, stood from the pile, and grumbled, “What a loss.”
Hmm…
Not bad at all.
Wen Jiang contemplated with a sense of accomplishment (expressionless edition).
Incorporating his own character interpretation had perfected Lin Wenzhi’s script. Every rehearsing actor had successfully played their parts. Lu Jinghuai had sung as he wished, and the painstakingly made cloud props hadn’t gone to waste.
Xie Qi’s Supernatural Ability had been used smoothly today, too.
Wen Jiang had asked him to collaborate on the “performance,” turning the crashing lighting rig into part of the show. Xie Qi had actually resisted strongly at first, but he rarely won stubborn standoffs with Wen Jiang. After a few rounds, he’d agreed.
Just need to snag an award now, and it’ll be perfect.
Even with the curtain drawn, Wen Jiang could hear plenty of audience members shouting “Number one!” at the top of their lungs, hurling praise without restraint. I agree, he silently echoed.
Four conspicuous figures lingered at the stage edge: one slumped on the ground, one who’d been staring at him nonstop, one squatting nearby who suddenly looked up at him with pleading eyes, and only Gao Mingcheng, now recovered, cheeks flushed with excitement.
All pretty normal reactions.
Cranking his ability higher, weird states weren’t surprising. Wen Jiang threaded easily between them. Gao Mingcheng’s eyes sparkled like a sky full of stars as he watched Wen Jiang, stepping back proactively to clear a path. Passing Wen Tianlu, the man’s hand twitched, as if to grab Wen Jiang’s arm, prompting an extra glance.
A tidal wave of information surged forth. At high ability levels, even retracting it left a lingering “afterglow.” For a moment, Wen Jiang read a torrent of complex emotions from Wen Tianlu.
…Not strange, but the sheer volume is a bit much.
Before parsing further, Wen Jiang deftly shoved it all into a mental back corner.
Better to be alone or in low company right now.
Wen Jiang skipped the now-exuberant club members, slipping into an empty hallway instead. The group chattered excitedly in premature celebration. A quick scan gleaned volumes from their gestures, expressions, words.
Offstage, Lu Jinghuai reverted to anxious fidgeting, clinging to Lin Wenzhi’s arm with sighs. The props seniors scratched their heads in confusion—thrilled yet aftershocked—asking the president if this was a planned spectacle or if the rig had truly collapsed.
They even plotted a massive cake for Wen Jiang, debating flavors. Who cares about trophies? Today’s show is enough for the star to eat cake for life.
Wen Jiang quietly messaged Lin Wenzhi: No celery.
Lin Wenzhi: Who puts celery in cake?
Lin Wenzhi: …This isn’t a joke, is it?
Wen Jiang: [little dinosaur giving a thumbs up.jpg]
The ability’s “afterglow” faded, soon returning to comfortable, low-info normalcy. Wen Jiang looked up post-message—and startled at Xie Qi suddenly there.
…A live person popping up like that is kinda scary. Wen Jiang thought flatly.
Xie Qi must’ve dashed from the audience. His face looked awful, jaw clenched tight, gaze heavy and locked on Wen Jiang. Unlike Wen Tianlu’s vibe, this felt like calm before a storm—like roiling black sludge beneath choppy seas, amplified a hundredfold.
Doesn’t look happy… As Wen Jiang pondered, Xie Qi abruptly pinned his shoulders, yanking him forward into a crushing embrace.
Xie Qi’s grip was like he meant to meld Wen Jiang into his bones. Wen Jiang blinked lightly, feeling the man’s frantic heartbeat through their pressed chests.
Xie Qi’s breaths came ragged, laced with faint tremors. He seems the most shocked today. His palms and arms were icy. Hoarse, he asked, “You okay?”
As if I’d suffered some huge injustice.
“…Mm.” Wen Jiang replied calmly. “Scared me half to death.”
Xie Qi’s hold tightened instantly, a suppressed ferocity rising with it. After a beat, he released Wen Jiang, kicking aside obstructing debris toward Ke Yuan and the others. Wen Jiang swiftly grabbed him: “Kidding. I’m fine.”
Xie Qi’s normal strength dwarfed Wen Jiang’s, but he halted anyway, forearm muscles taut. He ground his molars, then whipped his head around.
Wen Jiang opened his mouth—then froze as coolness brushed his cheek, managing only a muffled “Mm?”
Always respectful of boundaries, Xie Qi now “trespassed” boldly, cupping Wen Jiang’s face. Wen Jiang blinked his dark eyes, like a cat suddenly subjected to a whirlwind tousle—its aloof distance softening into puzzled curiosity.
The touch felt like pristine cold porcelain, tangible moonlight—delicately fine, as if any pressure might mar it. Xie Qi cradled Wen Jiang’s face like fragile artistry, thumb grazing his cheek softly.
Their eyes met; Wen Jiang sensed raw fear and anxiety in Xie Qi’s. A few real touches seemed to finally calm him. He scanned Wen Jiang’s shoulders, arms, waist, legs. Wen Jiang let him lift his hand for inspection, then murmured, eyes downcast, “I’m not hurt.”
He added, “You know that best.”
The stage winds had guarded him absolutely—no shard had neared.
Xie Qi’s lips parted soundlessly. He looked at Wen Jiang again, met those serene eyes, and finally settled, arm looping gently around his waist for another hug.
He rested his forehead on Wen Jiang’s shoulder, exhaling long—like coming alive—as if surfacing from depths.
“…” Wen Jiang tilted his head slightly, then slipped his arms past Xie Qi’s sides, hugging back with a light pat on the shoulder.
Strange. No resentment or fear stirred in him. Rationally, he knew he’d been unfairly framed, yet felt no true grievance or injury. But this treatment lent a tangible sense of misfortune.
The butterfly didn’t flit away this time, alighting on resting winds—like faint shoulder dust brushed off. Amid the same easy lightness as last night, feeling Xie Qi’s heartbeat, Wen Jiang realized something. “Don’t kill him.”
The prior joke had flopped, but he tried lightly: “We’d have to enter the Secret Tower* right away. Finally got those social contribution points.”
Can’t enter, Xie Qi thought, buried in Wen Jiang’s shoulder. I won’t let the Tower “know.”
But Wen Jiang patted his back softly. “Xie Qi?”
“…”
Xie Qi sighed inwardly once more.
“…Mm.” He finally agreed, turning his head. Wen Jiang felt hot breath; something soft, teasingly brushed his hair.
Xie Qi kissed the strands by his ear—tenderly, almost lovingly.
…Huh?
Wen Jiang blinked softly.
Weird, huh.
