Chapter 17: That Surging Rage Feels Familiar

It’s Monday, with some time left before work.  

Song Wuli, 34, was about to do one of the wildest things in his life: go out as a woman.  

He left with a backpack, carrying his wand and male clothes for a quick change.  

To save time and avoid crowded public transport, he flew on his wand.  

So convenient—cruising at a slow 60 km/h, straight-line flight, faster than the subway.  

Near his destination, he landed in an empty alley.  

He stowed the wand and adjusted his appearance.  

He stepped out shyly, head down, avoiding eye contact.  

Confidence? 

Not a chance.  

Who could be confident in this situation?  

First time out as a woman in normal clothes, unsure if his outfit was weird or if he’d slipped up.  

On the street, morning crowds bustled.  

Street cleaners, office workers, pilgrimage fans.  

Men, women, young, old—all glanced at him as they passed.  

Am I that strange?  

He discreetly checked his black wig—secure, no silver hair showing.  

Glasses were fine.  

The bra was properly worn.  

Pants and shirt seemed okay.  

The more he walked, the less confident he felt.  

Then, two schoolkids passed by, pointing and shouting, “Wow, big sister’s so pretty!”  

“Yeah, super pretty!”  

Unfiltered, genuine praise, no ulterior motives.  

Other passersby whispered, “Is she a celebrity? 

Such great vibes.”  

“She looks familiar, like I’ve seen her somewhere.”  

“If she were my wife, I’d trade 50 years of my life.”  

Some snapped photos or recorded videos.  

Song Wuli’s inner scream: This won’t do—my persona’s crumbling!  

At a crosswalk, waiting for the light, he mustered courage, stood tall, chest out.  

Revealing this black-wigged woman’s identity wasn’t a big deal—people might just think she’s Yinlin.  

But Song Wuli being Yinlin?

That must stay hidden.  

He had to nail the bratty imp or green tea persona so no one would ever connect Yinlin to Song Wuli, even if they stood side by side.  

Showtime!  

Head high, face exuding confident arrogance.  

A touch of haughty charm without overdoing it; a hint of green tea without being overt.  

Sprinkled with a dash of innocent playfulness.  

This was “hard” to pull off.  

His idle pose only hit three or four out of ten in resemblance.  

He crossed the street, walked a bit, and reached No. 8 Milk Tea Shop.  

He was a bit late—there was an interview line already.  

The pilgrimage crowd was huge, and some saw the hiring sign, jumping in with a “why not make some cash” attitude.  

The shop had just opened, and interviews were starting.  

The boss realized 1,000 yuan an hour was steep but couldn’t backtrack now.  

So, he raised the bar.  

Asking about education, age, even social media follower counts.  

At five minutes per interview, it’d take over an hour for Yinlin’s turn.  

He’d be late for work.  

Two rejected candidates passed, grumbling, “I only asked for 600, and I didn’t make it? 

It’s just a part-time gig—why so strict?”  

They weren’t bad-looking, yet they got cut? 

This competition was fierce.  

At 600, Song Wuli thought, might as well not bother.  

He was ready to bail.  

The woman in front stepped back, bumping into him, and turned to apologize, “Sorry…”  

Huh? 

No one there?  

“No worries,” a voice came from below.  

She looked down—so short?  

Wow, so cute! This adorable little sister is here to… apply?!  

The woman quietly left the line.  

Hearing the shuffle, the woman two spots ahead turned back.  

Spotting Yinlin, even as a woman, she couldn’t help but marvel.  

This little sister was too pretty, like she stepped out of a painting.  

Wait—she’s here to apply?  

She, too, left the line.  

Seeing two people leave, Song Wuli assumed they were hitting the bathroom and would return, leaving two spots open.  

Feeling the empty space behind, the woman three spots ahead turned.  

Ten seconds later, she left too.  

What’s going on? 

Everyone hitting the restroom?  

Someone behind nudged him forward two steps, nearly tripping him.  

He glanced back, locking eyes with a tall woman.  

She gasped, eyes wide, and asked, “Sorry, little sister, you’re here to apply too?”  

Song Wuli, slightly annoyed, recalled his persona and said, “What, an ordinary big sister like you is applying too?”  

Her anger flared: “A shorty like you is looking for work?”  

Song Wuli tapped into his script, finding the perfect comeback.  

“Yep, with such average looks, big sister, got any standout qualities to make up for it?”  

She was speechless, wanting to retort but unable to.  

If their looks were close, she could’ve argued.  

But the gap was crushing—there was no debate.  

She left the line, not bothering to argue with a kid.  

More people started leaving, creating a big gap around him.  

Song Wuli moved up, suddenly fifth in line.  

Wait, the woman ahead looked familiar.  

She turned, locking eyes with him.  

“Nei hou, have we met before?”  

It was the rude woman from the milk tea shop yesterday.  

“I don’t understand, speak Mandarin,” Song Wuli said, sweating nervously.  

This magical girl’s body could sweat too.  

The first time meeting someone who’d seen both Song Wuli and casual Yinlin—felt like a test.  

Time to see if his persona disguise held up.  

“Haven’t we met somewhere? You look familiar,” she leaned closer, studying him.  

“Such a low-tier pickup line. Why’s auntie acting like a sleazy uncle?” 

Song Wuli kept acting, pushing hard.  

“Me? Auntie? Sleazy uncle?” 

Her voice rose as she pulled out her ID, pointing to her birthdate. 

“Look, I’m 17, okay?”  

She cared more about “auntie” than “sleazy uncle.”  

Not Song Wuli’s fault—her outfit and makeup did make her look older.  

She suppressed her rage, still suspicious.  

That surging anger felt so familiar.  

Where had she seen this person before?