As the final syllable faded, Zhou Yang said no more, but that only left ample time for malicious speculation.
Li Nian opened her mouth to curse him out, but another voice beat her to it: “So what?”
Yan Mian closed the book in her hand and fixed her gaze on Zhou Yang’s face. “Even if Zhu Lexing and I do have some unspeakable relationship.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
Zhou Yang had long heard of Yan Mian’s reputation as a pushover, so he’d never expected a response like this from her. He couldn’t help but be stunned.
In terms of any actual relation, there was none, of course—he was simply jealous.
Jealous that the one Zhu Lexing had chosen wasn’t him.
With a sneer, Zhou Yang said, “I’m just speaking up for fairness. But you—by saying that, aren’t you admitting you pulled some strings?”
“Pulled strings?” Yan Mian shot back. “Besides you, who would even think that landing a single role requires pulling strings?”
“By your logic, there are plenty of people in Class Four far more talented than you. So doesn’t your spot here mean you’ve got some shady connection with them?”
“Otherwise, why would they give up their places for you?”
Her voice remained even, her words crystal clear. In just a few sentences, she left Zhou Yang red-faced and furious. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Isn’t that just your logic?” Li Nian finally caught on and jumped in right away. “What, you dish it out but can’t take it when someone throws it right back? You’re not even playing the prince, but you’ve got a full-blown case of prince syndrome—”
Before Zhou Yang could fire back, a cheeky whistle cut the farce short.
Qiao Qiao waved the notebook in her hand, her smile radiant. “Doesn’t the school ban pets on campus? So why do I keep hearing dog barks from outside?”
The faces of everyone who’d spoken earlier turned ashen then flushed, each one wondering if Qiao Qiao meant them.
But Yan Mian only had eyes for Zhu Lexing.
The girl’s expression was serene, impossible to read for good or ill, evoking the calm before a storm.
If Zhou Yang had only targeted her, Yan Mian probably wouldn’t have fought back. She was used to enduring; one more round of his nonsense wouldn’t have fazed her.
But when he started slandering her ties to Zhu Lexing—and dragging Li Nian into it—she felt a thread of her restraint snap.
Zhou Yang assumed Qiao Qiao was about to back him up and opened his mouth to speak, but she continued, “Yan Mian? Li Nian? Any idea who brought the dog in?”
With a cheerful smile, Qiao Qiao pointed at everyone who’d just spoken.
The only one she skipped was Zhou Yang.
Given her earlier words, the unnamed one was obviously the “dog.”
Before anyone could respond, Zhou Yang caught the implication and exploded. “Qiao Qiao, what the hell do you mean?”
“There it goes again.” Qiao Qiao let out a sigh, utterly unfazed by his tantrum. “Where does this dog even come from, barking its head off like that? No one at home to teach it manners growing up? Keeps yapping the same line over and over—clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.”
Remembering her status, Zhou Yang didn’t dare clash with her head-on. He swallowed his anger and turned hopefully to Zhu Lexing, praying she’d speak up for him.
At this point, his dignity was already in tatters, but salvaging even a scrap was better than nothing.
Zhu Lexing ignored him entirely, addressing the others instead. “Besides him, does anyone else think my role assignments are unfair?”
In the crowd, Xu He yawned indifferently.
Zhu Lexing nodded. “Looks like that’s a no.”
“I’m a very democratic person. If you can’t accept my arrangements—”
“Then please leave the team.”
Zhou Yang’s hopeful expression froze on his face.
Zhu Lexing’s tone stayed even. “I don’t need team members who refuse to cooperate with scheduling. If working together is unpleasant, then there’s no need to work together at all.”
“You—”
“Cut the you-me crap.” Qiao Qiao was getting fed up with Zhu Lexing’s prim phrasing. “Can’t understand plain English? Here’s the translation: You’re fired. Right now, immediately—scram.”
Zhu Lexing added offhandedly, “Anyone who pities him or agrees with him is welcome to leave too.”
Zhou Yang stared in disbelief. “On what grounds?”
The question was aimed at Zhu Lexing, so Qiao Qiao held her tongue.
Zhu Lexing paused for a few seconds before replying, “Of course it’s because I’m playing favorites and prefer putting my classmates in the lead roles. Isn’t that exactly what you wanted to hear to feed your twisted curiosity? There, I said it. Happy now?”
Zhou Yang slunk away… smoothly, abruptly, and utterly ignored.
Yan Mian, however, still couldn’t quite process it.
This was the first time Zhu Lexing hadn’t mocked, belittled, or ridiculed her in front of others—instead, she’d stood up for her.
Surrounded by the others’ cheerful chatter and laughter, Zhu Lexing scribbled away on her notebook, her mind occasionally drifting back to that scene.
Backstage was just a wall away.
Even without a system prompt, Zhu Lexing could hear Zhou Yang’s voice crystal clear.
She shook with rage, whirling around on instinct to rush in and defend Yan Mian.
But right as she reached for the door, Yan Mian’s voice rang out.
Where Zhou Yang had been slyly spreading rumors to stir up drama, Yan Mian went straight for the jugular, sharp-tongued and ferocious—a total departure from her usual aloof detachment.
Zhu Lexing’s hand froze in midair.
At first, she was surprised, but on second thought, this was Yan Mian through and through: decisive, merciless to herself. Otherwise, she never would have excised her own gland and fled the Zhu Family later in the story.
In the original work, Yan Mian had too many vulnerabilities, too few chances to show her courage. Only after losing everything could she finally claim her true self.
Having pieced it together, Zhu Lexing decided this was all for the best.
This was the Yan Mian she wanted to see.
Today’s comment section overflowed with question marks.
Only now, with this chapter, did the readers truly dare believe that Zhu Lexing had gone from irredeemable scum to pure-love warrior—charging into battle for love, wild with devotion.
The Character Setting Collapse Degree had risen to 10% a few days earlier, and in just one day, it skyrocketed from 10% straight to 30%.
She was only one step away from being electrocuted, yet Zhu Lexing remained utterly unflustered.
Ever since discovering that the System featured this 【Character Setting Collapse Degree】 mechanic, she had been mulling over ways to game the loopholes.
What did it even mean for a character setting to collapse?
At its core, “Zhu Lexing’s” persona boiled down to a deranged Scum A. No morals. No one she gave a damn about. A human trash heap, plain and simple.
A scumbag suddenly turning devoted or sunny and upbeat? That would shatter the character.
But what if the scumbag developed a sliver of humanity? What if she gradually ironed out her flaws, shifted her behavior, and let her actions whisper to the world that Zhu Lexing had truly turned over a new leaf—stacking up a “good” side brick by genuine brick?
Did that count as a collapse?
Sure, some people would insist Zhu Lexing’s persona had crumbled, come hell or high water.
But if half—or more—believed it hadn’t collapsed, or slowly warmed to the change, then Zhu Lexing could keep the collapse degree in the safe zone.
Hell, if enough people ended up liking her, it might even drop.
It was the rosiest possible outlook, which boiled down to a straight-up gamble. Zhu Lexing had no clue if she’d bet right, but she was the only one on this single-plank bridge. Whatever she could try, she would.
If it worked? One less way to die.
Yan Mian’s favorability held rock-steady at 【-1000】. Clearly, Zhu Lexing’s recent antics hadn’t budged her heart one bit.
Easy enough to grasp, and Zhu Lexing wasn’t surprised. Before closing the interface, she’d casually checked her lifespan in the Backstage—and got the shock of her life. Her death date had been pushed back twenty days.
The System’s explanation: 【When the Host’s words and deeds benefit Yan Mian or those around her, the Host’s lifespan will extend accordingly.】
To Zhu Lexing, she’d just booted out a foul-mouthed piece of garbage.
To Yan Mian? Even hating Zhu Lexing’s guts, she’d remember the favor.
Staring at those twenty extra days, Zhu Lexing—for the first time—wished Yan Mian weren’t quite so “good.”
So good she couldn’t bring herself to accept it.
~~~
Zhu Lexing spent one day hammering out the script, another procuring props. By the time rehearsals kicked off for real, the School Anniversary was just three days away.
Out of respect for the original work, she held back from twisting 《Snow White》 into 《Rebirth: I Am Snow White》. Instead, she wove in some growth for the princess along the main plotline, flipping the Magic Mirror into Snow White’s “weapon” and sidekick.
Characters with real agency? No more simpering damsels trading on looks alone.
Her own “prince” role gave her pause for a few seconds. She scripted it as a medieval social recluse: tight-lipped, three lines total, every other thought relayed by her attendants (played by others).
That way, she could stick to Yan Mian around the clock, keeping her safe—without the awkwardness of endless chatter.
A win-win!
Yan Mian spotted the blatant favoritism in the script the moment she got it.
But Zhou Yang’s screw-up had everyone else toeing the line. Xu He griped a little, so Zhu Lexing swapped her with a guard who’d whined about too much talk.
Win-win again.
Yan Mian’s memory was sharp as a tack. Two reads through the script, and it was locked in. With time to spare, she itched to study. She looped in Li Nian—just to ease her worries—then headed to the Second Floor with script and workbook in hand.
The hallway stretched wide and hushed. Yan Mian had just dipped her eyes into a few problems when her phone buzzed. Expecting a message, she unlocked it: just spam.
Footsteps rang out down the corridor. She glanced up. Qiao Qiao stood a short ways off.
“Yo.” Qiao Qiao eyed the workbook on the windowsill behind her. “Even good students sneak phone time on campus? Break’s for chilling, though—fair enough.”
Yan Mian pocketed her phone. “Something you need?”
Qiao Qiao shrugged. “Zhu Lexing stepped out for a few. Came back, you’re gone—nearly lost her shit—”
Yan Mian’s face stayed cool, her story falling flat. Qiao Qiao sighed. “Fine. She asked Li Nian where you were. Heard Second Floor, sent me to fetch you.”
Yan Mian’s grip tightened on her workbook. “Why didn’t she come herself?”
Qiao Qiao arched a brow. “Zhu Lexing shows? You asking her that? Weren’t you doing problems? Get to it. I’ll keep an eye.”
Qiao Qiao figured she’d balk. Instead, after a beat of silence, the girl set her book aside, pen in hand, and dove in—scribing away with focus.
Qiao Qiao thought: What a weirdo.
Just like that Zhu Lexing—who knew damn well where Yan Mian was, knew she’d be fine—yet still sicced her to “babysit” till bell.
Two weirdos.
She’d caught wind of Zhu Lexing and Yan Mian’s deal.
No blended family, but same roof: Yan Mian, the live-in punching bag.
A few days back, wall between them, Zhou Yang mouthing off. Qiao Qiao figured Zhu Lexing would blow it off. Bored, ready to bail—then bam, Zhu Lexing wheeled without a second’s pause. Everything after? All tilted Yan Mian’s way.
Something off about it, Qiao Qiao sensed.
Her intel from before didn’t lie. But Zhu Lexing’s flip? Real as it gets.
What had Yan Mian done to flip the script on Zhu Lexing? That puzzle had gnawed at Qiao Qiao for days.
She’d straight-up asked Zhu Lexing. Got a stunned pause, then: “Got time on your hands? Crack a book.”
Qiao Qiao could only hope Yan Mian spilled.
But Zhu Lexing shadowed her tight. Crowds around, or no chance for dirt.
This? Yan Mian solo. Rare shot.
Qiao Qiao’s gaze felt almost tangible, but Yan Mian sensed it and deliberately ignored her.
She had guessed that Zhu Lexing must have called Qiao Qiao over, but as long as the girl harbored no ill intentions toward her, Yan Mian had no interest in prying.
In the end, Qiao Qiao couldn’t hold back. “You and Zhu Lexing—”
In the stairwell, Zhu Lexing had waited a full twenty minutes.
With Yan Mian nowhere in sight, she couldn’t focus on anything. Once Qiao Qiao had left, Zhu Lexing followed suit, checking her watch to time it perfectly.
The moment Qiao Qiao opened her mouth, Zhu Lexing flashed back to their previous conversation. Alarm bells blared in her mind—she knew this was trouble.
She had thought Qiao Qiao had long since dropped her suspicions about their relationship, which was why she’d let the two of them be alone together.
Who could have imagined it was all a ruse? A sneak attack! A trap!
A few days had been more than enough time for Zhu Lexing to figure out Qiao Qiao’s true nature: a cool, aloof goddess on the outside, but utterly unfiltered on the inside. Just picturing the crude ways Qiao Qiao might phrase her questions was enough to make Zhu Lexing break down. She hurriedly asked the System to blast an amplified version of the end-of-class bell ahead of schedule.
Qiao Qiao’s question was completely drowned out. Yan Mian looked baffled. “What?”
Neither of them could make out the other’s lip movements. Once the bell finally stopped, Qiao Qiao shouted at the top of her lungs, “I said—”
“Homework not done yet?”
The female voice cut in at the perfect moment—the timing too coincidental for words. Both girls froze in surprise.
Zhu Lexing stood at the top of the stairs, her expression as coldly aristocratic as ever. But her gaze fixed on Qiao Qiao, her brows furrowed as if sending some urgent message.
Qiao Qiao caught the warning in Zhu Lexing’s eyes and tsked. She was just about to make a tactful exit when Yan Mian spoke up. “It’s done.”
“. . . Qiao Qiao.” Yan Mian turned to her. “What were you going to ask just now?”
