Chapter 69: Trouble

Wen Jiang realized midway through the party that he was in a very tricky situation.

Given the extreme instability of mental interference, the focus of this practical mission wasn’t on perfectly impersonating Lin Xun himself, but on aligning with the image of Lin Xun that the others present held in their minds.

Breaking this down further, it could be roughly divided into two major categories: “others’ impressions” and “confidence in those impressions.” These two factors together determined the degree of freedom—and trouble—in Wen Jiang’s mission this round.

For example, if everyone present was meeting “Lin Xun” for the first time, with no real prior knowledge of him, there’d be no basis for anyone to say, “You don’t seem like him.” As long as he didn’t go completely off the rails, whatever he did, they’d believe it.

On the flip side, the more familiar someone was with “Lin Xun,” the more vivid and three-dimensional their mental image, the greater the challenge of the performance. But Wen Jiang didn’t think that was the trickiest part.

He’d put in the work to understand the “Lin Xun” template too. Running into one of Lin Xun’s close confidants—someone who knew him inside and out—would actually be a great chance to test his own skills. Plus, if they truly knew Lin Xun that well, they definitely wouldn’t try to get him into a hotel room with a celebrity.

Lin Xun wasn’t some strait-laced good boy, but from what he’d gathered, the guy was picky, had high standards, read people well, and surprisingly wasn’t driven by overwhelming lust.

He had that all-too-common mindset: he could play with others, but no one was playing with him. Gleaned examples proved Lin Xun had a sharp eye for reading intentions—he just chose whether or not to call them out. Trying to seduce him with beauty or manipulate him for gain wasn’t smart.

Add to that Lin Xun’s own claim that he’d “gone straight for a while now.” Regardless of his real motives, since he’d said it, anyone who truly knew him wouldn’t push their luck.

Not out of support or encouragement, but because they understood he wasn’t the type to lose his head over lust. No one at this party had enough raw allure to make Lin Xun eat his words based on looks alone—blind encouragement would more likely piss him off. And if Lin Xun really got angry, things wouldn’t end well.

Clearly, word needed time to spread. Lin Xun hadn’t made any public announcements or looped broadcasts declaring “I’ve changed.” It wasn’t like he said “I’m a reformed man,” and everyone instantly bought it. The people at the party weren’t on Lin Xun’s level anyway; they seemed oblivious to his decision.

That was why Wen Jiang had Lin Xun fill out the form with a lot of “what he used to like.”

That said, what was the trickiest situation in this mission? The one right in front of him: people who weren’t completely clueless about Lin Xun, but not deeply familiar either—yet convinced they knew him inside out.

Their impressions of “Lin Xun” deviated quite a bit from reality, but their confidence in those impressions was sky-high. They were dead certain “he’s exactly the kind of guy I think he is.”

If his performance didn’t match their expectations, their first reaction wouldn’t be “Guess I had him wrong all along.” They’d suspect something was off with him. Lin Xun himself might not care, but that kind of doubt could disrupt the mental interference. Wen Jiang couldn’t ignore it.

He couldn’t defend or express Lin Xun’s true self. Instead, he had to improvise on the spot, catering to their fantasies. The party atmosphere seemed relaxed, but in reality, Wen Jiang’s room to maneuver was tiny.

Down on the first floor of the Gongguan, there were four or five of these overly confident types—especially the manager who’d muscled in, and the celebrity who’d ended up sitting next to him. Their familiar postures and supreme confidence made Wen Jiang briefly wonder if Lin Xun had actually done deals with them.

They didn’t see Lin Xun as some pushover idiot, though… Anyone who did probably couldn’t even get into this so-called Gongguan. At the same time, the celebrity was utterly convinced they’d reached that “we’re on the same wavelength” phase. Ignoring him too long would raise suspicions, so Wen Jiang synced up with some of his cues in the details.

But if things kept trending this way, the private room later was inevitable. Gripping the celebrity’s wrist, Wen Jiang thought, as the celebrity’s gaze shifted a few times, sensing a flicker of doubt rising in his heart.

Ah, I need to act more “smitten.” Wen Jiang thought calmly, his fingers brushing ever so lightly over the other’s wrist bone.

Through on-the-fly observation, he fine-tuned his performance bit by bit to keep the acting smooth. The other’s doubts faded, but obviously, this brought him one step closer to the “hotel room ending”—like following an invisible forced script.

After that little detail, the celebrity loosened up even more. As the drinking games heated up and the mood turned steamier, the party’s games grew increasingly flirtatious. The boldest moment came when this guy named Liu Nian pressed in so close half his face was practically on Wen Jiang’s. Staring at him, Wen Jiang felt like he was looking at his own D-grade practical score report.

Anyone would instinctively flinch if a face suddenly closed in—unless they were lovers or acting.

“Lin Xun” couldn’t blankly dodge like that, so Wen Jiang didn’t. He skirted a D-grade rating, but just before Liu Nian could fully close the gap, he reached out and pinched the other’s chin.

Liu Nian’s pupils contracted. Meeting those pitch-black eyes, the clarity and scrutiny in them made his heart skip. Then his head was forcibly turned aside, creating distance.

Wen Jiang’s move wasn’t outright “rejecting”—that would’ve contradicted the “smitten” vibe. As he released Liu Nian, his thumb briefly trailed the jawline, but he pulled away without hesitation.

[I haven’t done anything too outrageous before. Kissing you here would just make me look cheap.]

Liu Nian got it, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. He pressed his lips together, his actions turning proper. Seeing him successfully process the rejection, Wen Jiang figured it wasn’t a total loss.

In Liu Nian’s eyes, Lin Xun wasn’t without desire, but it was… “classy.”

When the manager dragged him over to cozy up, he’d specifically mentioned a drama they’d both worked on. Liu Nian had likely seen Lin Xun on set and picked up on his personal standards.

Actually sleeping with him was out of the question. If anything, successfully avoiding the scenario he hated—while sticking to the “performance choice”—was the real challenge. Wen Jiang’s plan was to leverage Lin Xun’s professional work style to derail Liu Nian’s idea of a body deal. And facts proved he’d chosen right.

…Though he hadn’t expected that even after twisting it into “audition coaching,” he could still hear moaning here.

Wen Jiang impassively flipped through the raunchy script in his hands. A quick skim: over six bed scenes.

The segment he picked for Liu Nian had no explicit or borderline bits—the bed scene part was Liu Nian’s own choice. His Performance-Type Ability was probably B-grade; acting decent but not stellar, not a total flop. The biggest issue? Half his scheming mind wasn’t on the role.

After being cowed into compliance by “Lin Xun’s” work mode for a bit, Liu Nian started itching again, plotting their “deal”—or rather, his “last gamble.”

“Lin Xun’s” pointers were objective, precise, and cuttingly harsh. His hand on his knee tapped occasionally—a signature on-set thinking tic—then he’d deliver a smiling, brutally frank critique. Liu Nian wilted like frostbitten leaves, sliced methodically like a slab of dough, yet couldn’t muster a single comeback.

No doubt, this way he’d just bore “Lin Xun” with his shitty acting and get booted. But he couldn’t suddenly level up to impress the high-standard Lin Xun either. Gritting his teeth in desperation, Liu Nian circled back to the body trade, volunteering for the bed scene lines.

The intent: use the steamy bit to spark some interest, keep things viable.

“Lin Xun” wouldn’t snap at that. Even if amused inside, he’d smile and play along, like Fine, show me what you’ve got.

But that scheme was doomed. Forget Wen Jiang—even Liu Nian didn’t truly believe he could seduce “Lin Xun.” That doubt suited Wen Jiang perfectly. He’d just roll with it, stall a bit longer, and usher him out.

It dragged the time, but it was safe. Wen Jiang listened as Liu Nian mimicked bedroom moans from across the way—sticky-sweet tone, but overdone into stiffness. He chuckled lightly, not looking up as he turned a page. “Relax.”

Compared to his initial coaching, “Lin Xun’s” comments now were curt, no specific tips. His tone alone sounded lingeringly intimate, like they were lovers—but plainly, boredom was setting in. Liu Nian’s face flushed and paled by turns; Wen Jiang pretended not to notice.

He’d finished skimming the script in the meantime. Classic romance packed with clichéd misunderstandings, love-hate dynamics, and reunion arcs—from college days to office life. Lots of inner emotions conveyed through bed scenes, explaining the volume.

Liu Nian’s mind wasn’t on the play; his performance dripped too much real-world seduction, the opposite of the lead role he was gunning for—an emotionally repressed, restrained type.

The character loved deeply but thought his partner despised him, so even hand-holding was tentative. Early bed scenes oozed bittersweet love-hate torment.

Drawing on professional instinct, Wen Jiang analyzed as an actor. Those moans with his secret crush shouldn’t be sweet and passionate—the voice needed to be lower, more clipped and pained. The two mid-thrust mouth-openings, poised to bite his lover, captured that frustrated, darkening impulse from being denied—yet held back: no right to mark without permission, fear of repercussions, and unwillingness to hurt—

—Huh?

Wen Jiang blinked lightly.

…Huh?

A strong, familiar sensation hit—the same one from last night. The imagined image suddenly overlapped with reality.

He blinked again, snagging the tail of a fleeting thought, instinctively feeling a touch of absurdity.

Huh?

His mind glitched, then rebooted—like a computer briefly crashing and restarting, rerunning after a bug. That thin window paper? Oops, poked right through with a tiny hole.

…Doesn’t this character’s behavior kinda match Xie Qi’s lately?

Huh? Then logically, the one “acting opposite” him back then was…

Huh?

Eh?

Wait.

“Sorry, I didn’t do great.” Liu Nian spoke up from across, eyes downcast. He abandoned the lines, paused in silence, then grabbed a box of condoms from the table.

“But Young Master Lin, I…”

Wen Jiang’s lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. Seeing him seemingly lost in thought, Liu Nian went for broke and reached for his shoulder—but was waved off before contact.

…Doesn’t mean I can’t handle you while thinking.

Time to show him out. Wen Jiang looked up, mouth opening—

A scream pierced from outside the Gongguan.

It came with a deafening boom that shook the whole building. Panic shouts erupted instantly, gales whipping up. Wen Jiang shoved Liu Nian back hard. The next second, windows on all three floors shattered in unison!

The supposedly locked door blasted open, its iron lock snapping like dry grass. Winds surged from every direction, hurling brick and glass shards. Liu Nian screamed, tumbling onto the bed. A seven-to-eight-centimeter gash had appeared on the side wall—who knew when.

If Wen Jiang hadn’t pushed him, that reaching arm would’ve been torn clean off.

Liu Nian’s face went ashen, still clueless as he trembled to scramble up—only to unleash an even shriller scream the next instant.

Air currents coiled around his ankles like a pair of ghostly hands seizing him, brutally dragging him across the floor all the way to the window that had been shattered into a ragged, cavernous hole. Shards of glass littered the ground, immediately slicing several red gashes across Liu Nian’s body.

It all happened too fast. The swift-strike prowess of an S-Grade Combat Type was on full display in this moment. Xie Qi strode into the room over the crunching glass fragments, his body wreathed in a savagery so tangible it was as if a vengeful demon had crawled up from hell to claim souls. He raised his foot and stomped down on Liu Nian’s wrist.

That very wrist, which Wen Jiang had caressed so tenderly moments before, let out a faint crack amid a burst of wailing cries.