Chapter 9: Practical Assignment

Right now, Wen Jiang figured he had two things to take care of.

He stepped out of the Training Field and climbed back into Xie Qi’s car. He channeled a trace of Supernatural Ability into his Ring, watching as a layer of blue-green light shimmered into existence above it.

The membrane-like protective barrier flickered faintly in the air, looking somewhat fragile.

Wen Jiang then pulled out his backpack and retrieved his S-Grade student handbook, flipping to the two lines of fine print at the bottom of the appendix.

The irrefutable facts lay before him. Wen Jiang fell silent, gazing out the window. Beside him, Xie Qi hugged his arms, sulking alone now that they were out of the Training Field and no longer holding hands. But Wen Jiang’s aura of melancholy was too obvious, so Xie Qi couldn’t help shooting him a suspicious glance.

Guided by the practical mindset that life must go on, Wen Jiang soon pulled out his phone again and began drafting a maintenance request for his Suppressor, following a template he’d saved before.

His Supernatural Ability stability tests had always come back excellent, and he wasn’t in a disruption phase—objectively, he didn’t need external help to suppress his powers. But per regulations, S-Grade ability users were required to possess at least one compliant, fully functional Suppressor of equivalent grade.

The logic was probably like how a dangerous gun needed a safety catch—even the Lifestyle System couldn’t escape that.

Civilian Suppressors on the market capped at A-Rank suppression, valued not just for basic functions but also style and brand. They were common at public gatherings or Ability training sessions. S-Grade Suppressors fetched sky-high prices the moment they hit the market. Wen Jiang’s past sources were twofold: applications to social Ability agencies or to the school.

Both were essentially welfare perks society provided for S-Grades. Social Ability agencies offered varying discounts based on official family income brackets—Wen Jiang had qualified for two free Suppressors.

He’d used up both chances, and those Suppressors had reached the end of their service life. The Ring Suppressor he currently used had been provided free by Qingchi; subsequent maintenance costs were on him. It came with a protective function, which was part of its quality certification.

Actually, ever since blocking Jiang Hehu’s iron ball kick, Wen Jiang had felt he should request repairs. But recalling the maintenance fees for this model, he wasn’t eager to face it.

Those close to Wen Jiang had all picked up some skill in “reading his thoughts from his face.” Xie Qi glanced once, then twice more. When Wen Jiang started typing up the request, realization dawned: “It’s busted?”

“Should just be the protection function,” Wen Jiang clarified, downplaying the severity. “Fixable and still usable after.”

Xie Qi and Wen Tianlu had never applied for repairs. Wen Tianlu swapped his Suppressors like outfits—ear studs, necklaces, bracelets, a different style every day. Xie Qi wore a brandless black wristband and never babied it. Forum speculation pegged his custom model at the price of five or six apartments in Yanhai Central District.

“Even repaired, yours won’t last long,” Xie Qi said indifferently. Qingchi issued basic models—how good could the quality be? “I’ll get you a new one tomorrow.”

Mm… huh? The melancholy Wen Jiang paused his typing, processing the offer before blurting, “That fast?”

No backstory or buildup? The classic plot where the lavish spender goes, “Want it? It’s yours,” only for the other side to firmly refuse temptation with a resounding “No way.” But after rounds of back-and-forth friction, their bond deepens instead.

Wen Jiang had never been in such a scenario before, nor had he ever considered asking his rich friend to buy him an S-Grade Suppressor. Now, plunged into the fan-favorite trope of “how friends from vastly different backgrounds get along”—gift-giving edition—he felt like they’d skipped a ton of push-pull steps.

Custom Suppressors took time to make. This time, Xie Qi had acted first and planned to report later. Before, he’d figured Wen Jiang wouldn’t accept, so he’d never presumed. The last time Wen Jiang needed repairs, he’d been equally glum—or so Xie Qi assumed. His face-reading skills weren’t sharp then, but Qian Lang, already tight with Wen Jiang, could tell.

Qian Lang had bro-like patted Wen Jiang’s shoulder back then, his detection wristband leaving a faint crease on Wen Jiang’s uniform—the cost could’ve extended his Suppressor another twenty years. “Don’t sweat it. Where you working? I’ll come support.”

“Black Swallowtail Theater Troupe’s hiring temp actors,” Wen Jiang had replied tonelessly, gnawing his lunch bread while plotting to scrimp. “After the show, Aili Bakery. Want cake? Buy some—more sales, more commission.”

He figured he could snag another customer. He and Qian Lang both eyed Xie Qi. Qian Lang’s expression was earnest, silently pleading Just say yes. Wen Jiang wasn’t one for “on-stage hustling,” making him hard to read, but his quiet bread-chewing softened the distance. Xie Qi held their gazes for a moment, then bought three cakes from Wen Jiang’s workplace as support.

Back then, Xie Qi had intuitively known what to do. Now, with their friendship rocketing forward and zero romance experience under his belt, Xie Qi had a fresh idea.

“Ordered it ages ago,” he said, pausing as if casual, then emphasizing, “Matches mine.”

Xie Qi’s wristband had a built-in identity lock—info non-resettable. The matching new band was already registered to Wen Jiang as wearer. To others, it’d look like a luxury car with welded-shut doors.

Wen Jiang’s no-waste backup plan seemed blocked. He followed protocol anyway: “If I say no, what then?”

Xie Qi looked incredulous, eyes flashing shock and a hint of grievance. He whipped his head to the window, snarling viciously, “Smash it.”

Bro, you’re just burning money?

Xie Qi said what he meant. Wen Jiang quickly caved, sincerely grateful: “I want it. Thanks.”

Xie Qi turned back, mood still sour. This turn was way off script—he felt their dynamic was off-kilter. Following protocol himself, he ventured, “…Reward?”

…Strong-arm sales, huh. Wen Jiang’s hand froze on the close button. He equivocated conservatively: “You first—let’s hear it.”

The calm, almost indifferent tone wilted Xie Qi further, stoking nameless frustration. He couldn’t see where he’d gone wrong but stubbornly pressed: “Wen Tianlu’s dinner next week. Dance with me.”

Wen Jiang replied instantly, “Sure.”

He breezily closed the page and moved to his second task.

Xie Qi, beside him, processed for seconds, brain short-circuiting.

Hand-holding’s a no-go, but dancing’s fine? What kinda logic is that?

Not a joke, was it? Xie Qi grew wary, like a wolf eyeing fresh meat in a trap: “For real?”

Wen Jiang did joke sometimes. He shot back, “Forget it then?”

“I didn’t say that.” Xie Qi grumpily retorted, glancing at Wen Jiang’s still pristine white wrist. His mood honestly lifted as he asked, “What now?”

“Practical assignment.” Gao Mingcheng’s complaints about Jiang Hehu had reminded him—his long-term practical wasn’t done. Wen Jiang scrolled invites on his phone, hunting suitable tasks.

Practical tasks honed Supernatural Abilities. Combat System students did field exercises and matches; Lifestyle System ones used powers for art or daily fixes.

Wen Jiang’s was 【Drama Stage】, subclass performance. As forums said, at S-Grade, no Ability was harmless—it shattered human limits. Still, stereotypes lingered.

Most performance students ended up on screens or stages. Speculation had Wen Jiang debuting post-grad, skyrocketing to fame, inking his mark on film history as the first S-Grade superstar actor.

His advisor harshly called it “shortsighted.”

Performance was still core, of course. A-Rank and below did off-campus filming, plays, street improv. Wen Jiang’s was fulfilling “roleplay tasks” from others.

Anyone could post invites on the site per rules; system auto-reviewed, randomly sending ten weekly to his account for his pick—like bounty quests. Accept, log a grade.

S-Grade and Super A-Grades skipped the lottery, sending direct. He’d rejected Jiang Hehu’s “Play my lackey.”

He needed three more to finish. Wen Jiang swiped, occasionally hitting “Draw Ten More” at bottom, undecided. To Xie Qi, he said, “If you don’t mind, send the dance as a task.”

…So that’s why you agreed so quick.

“No wonder.” Xie Qi leaned back, complaining but not mad. Seeing Wen Jiang dither, he tsked, pulled his phone, opened a saved page, tapped direct invite, editing while casual: “That picky?”

“Yeah.” Wen Jiang admitted—why else ask a friend?—adding, “Not impossible, but I gotta pick one today. Your dance is top so far.”

Xie Qi’s lips quirked in smugness without logic, but born with a silver spoon, it felt natural. Lazily: “What’re they? Spill.”

Wen Jiang read one: “‘Be my one-day boyfriend.'”

“…”

Xie Qi shot upright, voice dropping cold: “Who?”

“Anonymous—reveal on accept.” Wen Jiang scrolled: “‘As third wheel, wreck my marriage.'”

Others were short-term tough, paperwork-heavy, low points: “‘Infiltrate Vicente Mansion, uncover the lady’s secrets.'”

No clear Ability use? Teacher rejection: “‘Be my pretty boy.'”

Backup: “‘Help walk two dogs.'”

Second-last: “‘Tame my dad.'”

“…Damn, bold.” Xie Qi teetered on eruption, but barrage dulled it—voice flat, scarier now.

No target for rage but placid Wen Jiang, like a dormant volcano, magma churning, unable to erupt.

“More assignments after?” Xie Qi mashed send on his invite, reining in before kindly suggesting, “Take mine for the rest.”

Site limited invites per account—no spam. Xie Qi checked; his direct channel grayed out.

He messaged someone else; channel reopened fast.

“Keep looking.” Good student Wen Jiang eyed random pool—deadline far off, no rush.

Which meant Xie Qi might leave school sooner than that. Wen Jiang hadn’t seen his Ability lose control, but S-Grade disruption risk was dire.

He recalled Qian Lang’s early exit abroad, turning: “You staying this semester?”

Xie Qi blanked, thumb rubbing screen unconsciously. The baleful aura fully dissipated.

“Not leaving.”

He reclined, meeting Wen Jiang’s eyes, repeating: “Staying.”