Lu Yao said that though Luzhixing revealed nothing, she felt in the clash her sister was still the same, like a familiar moon behind drifting clouds. After a fight, she breathed easier, like rain washing dust. She couldn’t figure this crowd out, like fog that won’t lift.

Winter break still had a week to burn, like a candle stub. The Tunguska expedition was booked for March, and Yekase suddenly sat idle, like a kite with no wind.

She asked Ling Yi, but heard that once school resumed, Ling Yi would dive into the hell-mode of senior spring, like a runner entering a tunnel. No Jurassic adventure together—only two stolen days to play, like sparrows pecking crumbs.

“So your idea of ‘play’ is what, exactly?” Yekase’s gaze landed on a stone building shaped with artistry, like chiseled waves. Over the door hung the gilded words Double Tower Grand Theater, shining like brass in winter sun.

They had agreed to meet here. Ling Yi had only sent the address, like a veil. It was meant to hide something, but such thin tricks couldn’t fool Yekase—she’d guessed a theater and pictured a play or a concert, like a hand turning a page.

“There’s social practice in the homework. No way around it.” Ling Yi wore the look of a beleaguered high schooler, like a puppy under rain. “I don’t know why seniors still have to do this flashy nonsense. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we breathe.”

“So why drag me here?” Yekase’s patience stretched like a string. “Help me do it.” The answer landed like a pebble in water.

“I’m going home,” Yekase said, turning like a door on its hinge.

“Hey?! Doctor, Doctor—” Ling Yi lunged and hugged her from behind, like a net thrown. She held her fast.

Yekase tried to wriggle free—she couldn’t. This red one, had she pledged to Mind Energy too? The thought pricked like a thorn. She sighed, then asked, voice soft as ash: “Tell me the specifics.”

Ling Yi let go with a grin, like sun breaking through. She fished a drink from her backpack and pressed it into Yekase’s hand, like passing a token.

“There’s a side stage doing community theater. Citizens who love drama go onstage for a scene. You sign up in the morning, get your script, watch for half a day, then perform at night and pass. My practice book gets its stamp.” Her words rattled like beads.

“Is there anything that absolutely needs me?” Yekase’s brow creased, like paper folded.

“These years TS—gender-bender stuff—got popular. Not mainstream, but known, like a rumor carried by wind.”

“Hm?” Her doubt flickered like a moth.

“Today’s play stars a normal male high schooler who wakes up as a girl.” The idea popped like a bubble.

“So you came to me?” The retort snapped like a twig.

“And I’m playing the childhood friend. I’ll kiss the heroine awake in the morning.” Ling Yi’s calm was a lake.

“Why?!” The question burst like steam.

Okay, sneaking into the protagonist’s room at dawn—common enough in the second dimension. But the heroine has turned into a stranger; how do you kiss like nothing changed? The thought scraped like sand.

“Did the childhood friend cause the transformation?” The suspicion slid in like a blade.

“No wonder you’re a doctor. You got it in one!” Ling Yi clapped, crisp as bamboo.

“……” Silence pooled like ink.

It was a script for absolute amateurs to have one happy day, so it was written loose, like a net with wide holes. Fine. Understandable.

Yekase realized her biggest enemy wasn’t forgetting lines; it was cracking up onstage. She followed Ling Yi inside and found the community side stage, like stepping behind the curtain.

The stage manager was a woman in her thirties with a head of green hair, like spring grass. She led them into a simple interview room, sat, and fired the first question like an arrow:

“What’s your edge for this role?” Her eyes pinned Yekase like needles.

Yekase glanced at Ling Yi, then asked back, a little lost: “Uh… you want me to answer?”

“Mm.” The reply was a drumbeat.

Come on. Isn’t this casual? And yet we’re doing self-statements? The doubt drifted like smoke.

“You think you’re just here for a day, so any role is fine?” The green-haired woman leaned forward, aura flaring like a kiln. Yekase shook her head fast. “No, uh… I can really feel what a gender-bent girl feels!”

“Oh? Say more.” Her voice was a calm blade.

Yekase forged ahead, jaw set like stone. “Because I have a friend who went from boy to girl.”

“This friend isn’t you, is it?” The tease slid like silk.

“It’s my friend! Name’s Crimson Field!” The name thumped like a seal.

You just sold Crimson Field out? Ling Yi stared, eyes round as coins.

“Good.” The green-haired woman nodded without a ripple, then turned to Ling Yi. “And you?”

“I want the childhood friend.” Her tone rang like a bell.

“Why?” The question perched like a sparrow.

Ling Yi pointed at Yekase. “Because I don’t want some stranger kissing her.” The line landed like a stone.

“You planned this.” The verdict was a match struck.

The green-haired woman scribbled a few notes on her board, strokes like reeds. She looked at the two waiting quietly and nodded:

“You two score a hundred.” The sentence fell like snow.

Oh. So happy. The feeling rose like warm tea.

She handed over two stacks of paper, then shooed them out like wind brushing leaves.

Yekase found a bench and flipped through the four-page “lead” script, pages thin as petals.

You are A-Fei, a seventeen-year-old normal male high schooler. Every day you’re kissed awake by your childhood friend, and at school you’re surrounded by pretty girls… yet you never notice their feelings and drift through your days like a boat in fog.

“This is an anime ‘normal’ boy, isn’t it?” Yekase swallowed the urge to tear the script, teeth like shutters. She read on.

One morning, you wake up and find you’ve become a girl! The sentence sliced like lightning.

Finally, the story starts. The relief eased in like spring air.

A-Fei is a normal boy; she desperately wants to change back. Next, please improvise freely. The words gaped like a cliff.

…

………

“Are you freaking kidding me?!” Her shout cracked like thunder.

Wait, there are four pages. First is the cover. Second is this nonsense. The last two… Her eyes skimmed, cold as glass.

A blank page and a back cover. The emptiness yawned like desert.

Yekase’s gaze went vacant; her thoughts stalled like a jammed gear.

“Doctor, how’s your script?” Ling Yi’s voice tapped like rain.

“Not great…” Yekase tossed the script onto the chair, like dropping a useless blade. Ling Yi picked it up and handed her own.

Childhood Friend — Xiao Qing. The name felt tossed-off, like chalk dust.

Yekase drew a breath, cool as mint, and opened Ling Yi’s script.

You are A-Fei’s childhood friend, Xiao Qing. As a millennium snake spirit, you’re skilled in Mind Energy arts. Every morning you pry the door open with your spell and kiss A-Fei awake, like dew touching a leaf.

To fend off the fox spirits circling A-Fei, you begged for a talisman that turned A-Fei into a girl, and you swore to guard her without leaving her side. Next, please improvise freely. The promise coiled like a serpent.

“Uh, wait?” Yekase blinked, like a lantern flicker. Something odd glinted like fish scales.

She reread the line. No mistake. She hadn’t misread. The certainty sat like a stone.

“Isn’t this a bit…” The words trailed like smoke.

“Feels like the improv part is huge.” Ling Yi’s smile was a thin crescent.

“This is beyond ‘huge’…” Yekase’s sigh spread like tide. Is there even a drop of actual script here?

She’d never seen a scriptwriter this shameless, and stared, stunned, like a bird at a mirror.

“Because everyone improvises, the same roles and same opening spawn completely different stories. It’s fun. I chatted online with the team last night. The stage manager’s even wilder—if actors are missing, she conjures magical servants to fill in.” Ling Yi’s excitement fluttered like flags.

“But it’s theater, right? What about the stage? Props? Handling dead air?” Yekase’s practical mind pushed like a broom.

“Those are whatever.” Ling Yi shrugged, shoulders light as feathers.

“Whatever?!” The word flared like a spark.

“We’re all here to play, and few audiences come to the side stage to watch this low-level chaos.” Her candor lay flat like a cat.

Yet that stage manager didn’t feel like she’d ‘whatever’ it. Her interview aura lingered in Yekase’s chest like heat. Yekase decided to take it seriously—though she had no idea how. The resolve sat like a stone.

She went hunting for other actors; none found. Instead, she struck up a chat with the props team, like turning down a side alley.

“If everyone improvises, how do you know which props to make?” Yekase asked beside a half-painted backdrop board, colors like sunrise.

A girl in thick burlap gloves explained, voice steady as rope: “We set three scenes. A street. A school. A classroom. That covers most moments.”

“What about the small bits left?” The question tapped like a chisel.

“We hand them to the stage manager.” The answer dropped like a coin.

“The stage manager?” The title hung like a banner.

“You met her in the interview, right? Lin Xiaomo. If the story goes wild beyond expectations, she fires up a unique magic only she can do, called [Stage Apparatus]. She uses Sorcery to build the scene on the spot.” The girl’s words gleamed like copper.

“That strong?” Yekase’s disbelief hovered like a bird.

“The stage manager is amazing! She can do anything!” The girl’s eyes shone like stars.

“Thanks. I feel a bit more at ease.” Yekase smiled, polite as tea.

It was just courtesy—in truth, the explanation muddied things further. [Stage Apparatus]… crafting detailed entities at range with Sorcery, like weaving cities from mist—was that really possible?

Another big shot? The thought stepped like a shadow.

Maybe Yekase had been too shaped by Sandryon, and she’d come to underestimate modern Sorcery by reflex. The doubt rustled like reeds.

…Better ask her directly. The decision stood like a stake.

Yekase hated sitting and guessing when she could keep digging, like a fox on a trail. She told Ling Yi, then headed to the stage manager’s office and knocked, knuckles like pebbles.

“Come in.” The response was a calm ripple.

Yekase pushed the door and stepped inside, like crossing a threshold. Lin Xiaomo glanced up from her desk, gaze a cool blade. “It’s you. How’s the script?”

“I want to ask something.” Emotion first, then motion; her voice was a low flame.

“Ask.” Lin’s word was a door.

“What can your [Stage Apparatus] do?” The question rose like smoke.

Lin raised a brow and watched Yekase for a moment, silence like a held breath. Then she smiled, faint as moonlight: “As long as you don’t break the character’s setting, the rest—go wild. That’s the point of this event.”

So [Stage Apparatus] was truly as capable as staff claimed? The realization struck like a bell.

Used on a battlefield, even if it only made obstacles and visual haze, it would be a killer, like fog and thorns. If this isn’t bragging, there’s only one reason she’s here: she sits in this chair because she chooses to sit. Slacking off—nothing shameful. The thought drifted like incense.

“So strong, why not move to a bigger stage instead of nesting on this small side stage as a manager?” Yekase’s curiosity curled like smoke.

“The big stage belongs to the Sinister Organization. I’d rather not go.” Lin’s words fell like stones into a dark well.

“…That’s convenient.” Yekase’s grin flashed like a knife.