Chapter 99: A One-Man Show

The first sensation of “melting” came at his fingertips.

His fingertips were swallowed by darkness, taking his sense of touch with them.

Next came his legs and feet—they lost their form, severing contact with the solid ground and giving the illusion of plummeting into the void.

Then his vision. Only now did he belatedly realize that darkness was still a “color.” The boundless black spread silently, immersing him in an instant.

In the “real” world, were the actual lights even on?

Many lights in the Wen Residence could be controlled with Supernatural Abilities. When Wen Jiang passed through the hall with the servants, he might have made a mark. During the inspection in the cottage, he had multiple chances to touch the switches.

The other had experience with such feats, and with his exceptional precision control even among S-Grades, briefly manipulating light sources with a Supernatural Ability wasn’t impossible.

…So this was a recreation of that time at Gaotian Theater?

Or perhaps things weren’t that complicated—no environmental factors needed. The overhead lights had been shining steadily all along, but because there were no light sources in the “performance,” he simply couldn’t perceive them.

Wen Tianlu’s brain hadn’t fully shut down. He could guess at some of the inner logic of the Supernatural Ability. If this was a show where everyone pulled into it witnessed their own heart’s “perfect” performance, then right now in the Wen Residence, people should be immersed in different illusions, heading to different stages.

Which was the correct answer?

He didn’t know. He wasn’t clear. He didn’t understand. No one provided answers. Only the void of darkness remained as the sole reality, silently filling the space.

His sense of self seemed to thin out along with it.

Wen Tianlu bent at the waist—or at least, he guessed he had made the motion of bending. Some binding pressure squeezed the breath from him. Once again, like every time before, the space turned claustrophobic and stuffy in the darkness—like an airtight cocoon, like the basement of his childhood. He lay on the cold floor, preferring the violence universally deemed a “wrong educational method”—that hate-iron-for-not-becoming-steel frustration—over the icy indifference and disgust.

What the hell was appealing about this…? Irritation at being spied on burned in his chest. Violent impulses surged through Wen Tianlu one moment, only to fade the next, leaving him wanting nothing more than to lie on the ground and stop moving.

What had he craved back then, locked in the basement? What had touched him that night he stumbled upon Wen Jiang’s rehearsal?

An invisible monster seemed to lurk above, peering down with a thousand eyes that pierced flesh to see his soul, making his body shudder instinctively.

Overwhelming allure, a compulsive force that glued his gaze in place—he couldn’t tell how much of his behavior truly came from his own will.

This is just another nauseating show of power! Wen Tianlu’s hand clawed at the ground unconsciously, just like in childhood when he’d scratched the floor with soft nails, impotently venting his rage at abandonment. The servant who delivered his meals fixedly saw the bloody marks on his fingertips when handing over the tray, paused in silence, then bent down and left.

And no one came after that.

His parents wouldn’t come today, or tomorrow, or the day after.

Pain couldn’t buy pity. His fingers dug into clumps of dirt, crushing them to powder in his palm. Wen Tianlu gasped on the damp earth. Once again, he was exiled to the wilderness. Hatred for his own weakness burned in his chest. He wouldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t accept it. He—

His fingertips suddenly brushed something hard. Wen Tianlu’s thoughts cut off. In the darkness, he glimpsed a faint glint. He paused, his gaze slowly focusing. Finally, he spotted a small coin in his palm.

Daylight shattered through. A thunderous boom echoed in his mind. Wen Tianlu jerked his head up, only now realizing the family courtyard had become an empty wasteland, with him kneeling alone in it. Between reality and illusion, he saw the towering spire on a sheer cliff, twin moons hanging in the pitch-black sky, roiling dark clouds rumbling with thunder. A storm connecting heaven and earth whipped at one person’s robes atop the tower.

…He couldn’t move.

The drama’s curtain rose. The audience took the stage. His body was a marionette with strings on every limb, seated under the gaze of a lofty god in Gaotian Theater, manipulated in every action—every blink, every breath confined to permitted bounds.

The glittering stage born of delight looked beautiful, glamorous, safe—something to yearn for, to crave. But standing at its center now, he suddenly realized it represented absolute command. He could only move to fixed positions, speak preset lines. Everything was recorded without omission—no room for error, no regrets.

Just like what he’d felt in that accidental encounter. Wen Tianlu stared fixedly at the figure on the high tower for a long time, throat parched, eyes stinging, feet rooted to the spot.

Perfect. Anticipated. Mesmerizing.

If a psychiatrist or psychologist were here, what conclusion would they draw from this scene…?

The coin in his palm burned hot, pulling him from that stifling basement without needing to hope for others. He—the monster, the god, Wen Jiang—will respond to me. Utterly unreasonable, Wen Tianlu thought. In reality, nothing had happened, yet he was staking everything on this fleeting dream.

But whatever, he thought. It doesn’t matter.

Mythic figures staked their lives chasing the sun. Artists in history books descended into madness for ultimate art. After Gaotian Theater’s show ended, he’d brushed past Wen Jiang, gaze dazed toward the audience below—some already weeping, babbling incoherently, lost in brief frenzy. Humanity’s thirst for beauty was never reasonable.

Emotion swelled: moved, joy, longing—willing to give everything for what lay before him. Even knowing it was an anomaly induced by the Supernatural Ability, Wen Tianlu let the feelings flood him.

Rational choices, “correct” actions—they meant nothing to him.

Just like that night his Supernatural Ability lost control and unleashed a cold wave. He knew what was right but couldn’t step into the light. Instead, near-instinct drove him—to find the coin Wen Jiang had tossed at Gaotian Theater—to bend and walk willingly into the darkness.

Wen Tianlu gazed from afar, raising the coin in his hand. It overlapped with the figure on the tower, like the tragic lead offering themselves to the dream at the finale.

The curtain fell. Thunderous applause roared from below.

The one I tossed into the water for him to fetch.

Well done.

“I need quiet,” Wen Jiang said, his calm tone like discussing the night’s weather with Wen Tianlu. “Don’t let your family disturb me again.”

An S-Grade facing another wouldn’t be utterly powerless—even without attacking, basic resistance existed. Wen Jiang was sure Wen Tianlu heard him. He waited a moment. Wen Tianlu’s arm finally lowered slowly, then he half-pushed himself up to sit properly.

Their eyes met. Wen Tianlu’s lips parted, but Wen Jiang cut in: “You have to watch them.”

Wen Ruoyue’s surface mission was done, but the actual demand was for Wen Jiang to score points too. He hadn’t come just to put Wen Tianlu in his place. Wen Jiang stated it as a question, utterly confident in the answer: “Understood?”

If Wen Tianlu’s Supernatural Ability destabilized and he ended up in the Secret Tower, he couldn’t fulfill this.

Of course, at his current level, he couldn’t “watch” the family anyway. Wen Ruoyue was manageable—she was the only one he could talk to at home. But above them loomed an utterly capricious pair of parents. Storybooks praised parents as shelters from wind and rain; theirs felt like suffocating prison cages.

But no matter. As long as Wen Tianlu stayed out here, he had time to grow and seize power. As long as he stayed out here.

It wouldn’t be easy. Wen Jiang just watched him.

Look at this guy—making such an unreasonable demand of a pale-faced man on the verge of losing his freedom, sitting there without offering a shred of help, as if he should desperately guard that single “don’t disturb me.” Wen Tianlu stared fixedly, finally opening his mouth: “…Fine.”

He clenched the coin again.

“…I agreed that easily,” Perhaps feeling too pathetic just agreeing, a last grasp at dignity, Wen Tianlu hooked a faint smile, questioning mildly in jest: “No reward?”

Wen Jiang stood—he’d been about to leave—but turned his head at that, looking down: “You can slap yourself.”

“…And if I fail?” Wen Tianlu’s smile widened a touch, questioning lightly: “You do it for me?”

Wen Jiang said flatly: “Then do nothing.”

He’d get no more orders—not even permission to slap his own face.

Wen Tianlu’s breath hitched for an instant. Wen Jiang’s gaze moved on, brushing him like irrelevant dust.

Wen Tianlu watched Wen Jiang push open the bathroom door, vanishing from view. Garden lights flickered on one by one. Next, Wen Jiang would retrace his steps through the now-chaotic hall—probably filled with sobs or retching—exiting the Wen Family through the front door without needing escort or permission.

A moment later, low laughter escaped Wen Tianlu, growing louder in the empty cottage—uninhibited, delighted, infuriated.

When it faded, he raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face.