The secret Gongguan in Lushan West District served as a private residence off-limits to the public, but it was also one of many playgrounds for the elite. In insider terms, they didn’t play with “cheap goods” here.
That was precisely why, for certain people, scoring an entry ticket wasn’t easy—not just for the “guests,” but also for the “offerings” providing services.
The Gongguan was where guests picked their merchandise, but from another angle, it was a marketplace where toys tried to sell themselves. This setup carried a touch of Lin Xun’s personal twisted amusement; on the surface, the Gongguan never forced anyone to provide services.
“Utterly coerced” and “somewhat willing” carried vastly different weights in many eyes. Compared to truly pure souls, far more people took the benefits nonstop while pretending to have “principles.” But the Gongguan’s voluntary sign-ups, limited slots, and “no-questions-asked withdrawal period” stripped away much of that moral fig leaf’s power. Acting too holier-than-thou here just invited mockery.
Of course, in such a massive Gongguan, you couldn’t paint everyone with the same brush. Whether genuine or not, whether hiding some backstory, some people still showed clear reluctance after entering. Their dynamic with those who openly admitted, “I’m here to snag a sugar daddy,” was intriguingly delicate.
The Gongguan’s nature was out in the open, so the eager bootlickers often claimed a “virtue edge” with “at least I’m not pretending,” justifying petty squabbles over “spot-grabbing.” To secure those limited slots, many offerings tripped each other up behind the scenes.
Most times, watching a swarm of ants in chaos was far more entertaining than observing a single one’s thoughts.
While Liu Nian bustled on the first floor, his profile had already been compiled and delivered to the right hands. The Gongguan’s manager knew exactly where to dig. Wen Tianlu glanced at it and burst out laughing, waving the paper teasingly at Lin Xun. “You should meet him yourself. So dedicated.”
Choosing this path yet dreaming of staying “spotless” while being pampered was pure fairy-tale fantasy. But it wasn’t impossible—if you wanted to climb without selling yourself out completely (overdoing it hit your ceiling too soon), you could always sell others instead. Liu Nian clearly excelled at it.
From the intel, when faced with such situations, Liu Nian would first politely decline, then proactively pitch alternatives he knew as a trade-off, offering backchannel help. He’d teamed up like this to eliminate several rivals.
It should’ve been hilarious—a prime exhibit of why ant swarms beat lone ants. But the mood in the room wasn’t festive. Even Wen Tianlu’s words carried a chill that stifled replies.
Wen Jiang gripped Liu Nian’s wrist. In the Gongguan’s first-floor secret room—off-limits without permission—Jiang Hehu was the first to frown and rise from the sofa. The moment he stood, the other two spoke in unison: “Don’t go.”
“Hah?” Jiang Hehu raised his voice, twisting to eye Wen Tianlu and Lin Xun, who sat unmoving. He crossed his arms, stared for seconds, then scoffed and sank back, tossing out a nameless jab: “Masochist.”
If you’re not planning to do jack, why watch? You could guess what happened next anyway.
Moments later, Wen Jiang and Liu Nian naturally headed upstairs. Now the door was shut—who knew what went on inside?
After nearly twenty minutes of them alone, Lin Xun finally pulled out his phone to dial. Wen Tianlu warned in the next second: “I advise against it.”
The room was cooler than outside. Wen Tianlu lightly stroked the head of an ice-sculpted rabbit. The entire wall ahead was a massive display split into grids, monitoring the Gongguan from exterior to interior—pool, corridors, halls, every corner in full view.
Wen Tianlu’s gaze lingered on that closed door, then his lips curved as he looked away, voice cool: “You’ve already dialed down the Gongguan’s play level. Still wanna bail him out?”
If not for preemptively lowering the “play grade”—and the guy he met being Wen Jiang—Liu Nian never could’ve hit the third floor so smoothly. He was “lucky,” at least today. Lin Xun’s interference ended there.
Letting Liu Nian get booted from the Gongguan? Easy ways abounded. But kicking him out with outside help right away was like snatching Wen Jiang’s exam paper mid-test. Lin Xun tsked inwardly, his tone stripped of its usual playfulness, flat: “Yeah. That’s why we’ve waited twenty-plus minutes, right?”
…What a creepy tone.
Jiang Hehu and Wen Tianlu thought it simultaneously—one rolled his eyes, the other looked up with a smile: “So? What identity are you intervening as?”
“Seedy shared backup boyfriend?” Wen Tianlu drawled out the long-dormant label, adding: “Xie Qi hasn’t even done shit yet. Why rush?”
Put yourself in his shoes—would Xie Qi do nothing if he caught Wen Jiang on this “practical assignment”? No chance. He’d have watched from somewhere for ages.
Jiang Hehu, who’d only gotten the threat text, eyed the vibe suspiciously, then gaped in shock. He glanced left, right, irritation building until he blurted: “You two okay? Jumped in that deep already?”
What the hell—this “backups” gabbing about the “main guy” tone? Did you even ask Wen Jiang? Did he agree to you as “backups”?
Making it sound real! Weren’t you both swearing “whatever” and “I know” before?
Wen Tianlu smiled, neither confirming nor denying. His mood was obviously sour—not “just spectating” at all. Chill hung in the air, stray Supernatural Ability traces swirling, grating on Lin Xun.
But watching the monitors, he stayed brazen: “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
…What a creepy look.
Lin Xun up front earnestly trying to, uh, guard someone’s “purity.” Wen Tianlu here striking that pose. Jiang Hehu gagged, then heard Lin Xun chuckle lowly after a beat—not cheerful.
He laughed, eyes shifting from Wen Tianlu’s hand on the rabbit, casually stomping a landmine: “Right now, you look just like your dad.”
Wen Tianlu’s hand paused. Room temp plunged, normalized in a second. He waved; the rabbit dissolved into white mist.
“You’ve changed a lot lately too,” Wen Tianlu said evenly, hands crossed on his knees, firing back: “Too bad Wen Jiang only knows the old you. Probably no interest in your ‘glow-up.'”
Lin Xun’s pressure dropped lower.
So I helped with his ‘black history TED Talk’ after all, Jiang Hehu mused, eyebrow quirking at the drawn-sword tension: “What, fighting here?”
“Ability shield up? Bare-knuckle? Tsk, not fair either.”
No mediating for him. Jiang Hehu poked leisurely, loving the drama—even eyed recording. He scanned the screens, lips twisting; his budding thrill deflated. Should’ve yanked Wen Jiang from that room ages ago.
He knew the assignment—no reminders needed. “Stir shit, don’t help.”
Wen Jiang wasn’t some actor fixated on “nailing the script.” He wouldn’t just play roles forever. For future undercover ops, mid-mission disasters? He couldn’t yell, “This deviates from plan—redo?”
Reasonable sabotage scored “technical points.” True bans: Lin Xun showing up personally, or yanking mental interference on floor one—like shredding the test.
And now twenty minutes in!
Kick the door, drag Liu Nian out, beat and dump him poolside—any excuse worked. Totally reasonable!
Jiang Hehu grew bolder, standing again. Even if stopped, screw it—too late now. Missing top marks from interruption? Not his problem—
—Hold up.
Jiang Hehu’s face shifted. Lin Xun, mid-sentence to Wen Tianlu, frowned too. They stared at empty air seconds, eyes snapping to screens.
By the front pool stood a familiar figure. On monitor, Xie Qi held his phone, talking, then hung up.
“…” Invisible air currents slipped from vents, circulating silently, traces mingling with Wen Tianlu’s. Lin Xun judged: “Been in a while.”
…What the hell’s he planning?
Even through screen, his state screamed off. Jiang Hehu tensed, Combat System instincts warning. He flicked to Wen Jiang’s still-closed door. Before speaking, the whole Gongguan jolted violently.
Crackling crashes followed, then screams. The room door burst open, sofa flipping into an uprising ice wall—boom.
Most screens snowed or blacked out. Last pool shot: towering splash, bystanders toppled by pressure wave.
“Fuck.” S-Grade pressure erupted in tight space. Jiang Hehu cursed low, urgent: “What’s his deal? Nobody tell him it’s fake?!”
Catching cheaters or playing patriarch? Wen Jiang couldn’t take Storm—sure, those “scenes” with others were eye-searing, solution slow, but no need to throw hands?!
