Life at St. Jude's High School settled into a rhythm that was, by Chen Feng's standards, remarkably "suburban." However, for everyone else, the arrival of the new drama teacher was like dropping a silk-clad panther into a pigeon coop.
The teachers' lounge was a place of beige walls, lukewarm coffee, and the soul-crushing scent of photocopier toner. When Chen Feng entered, wearing a charcoal turtleneck and his red blazer draped over his shoulders like a cape, the room went silent.
"Mr. Chen," barked Mr. Henderson, the gym teacher, whose neck was wider than his head. "I noticed you've replaced the stage weights with... are those ancient Babylonian stone jars?"
"They provide better grounding for the students' chi, Bob," Chen Feng said, elegantly stirring a cup of instant coffee that he had secretly transmuted into a 95 point Gesha roast.
The male faculty looked at him with a mix of apprehension and deep-seated jealousy. It wasn't just his effortless style; it was the way the reality seemed to bend around him.
Meanwhile, the female teachers—even the normally stern Ms. Gable from Calculus—found themselves suddenly needing to discuss the "theatricality of mathematics" in his office.
"The way you handle the lighting cues, Chen," Ms. Gable whispered, twirling a lock of hair around a compass. "It's so... luminous."
"Light is just a suggestion, Sarah," Chen Feng replied with a wink that made the poor woman forget the Pythagorean theorem for a full hour.
Among the students, the "Chen Effect" was even more chaotic. The girls in the drama club were experiencing a collective identity crisis.
The Awe: Half of them treated him like a visiting deity. They whispered about how his eyes seemed to change color when he quoted Ibsen, and how he once silenced a rowdy hallway just by clearing his throat.
The Affection: The other half were convinced they were the "muse" of his next masterpiece.
"I think he looked at me for three seconds during the monologue," Tiffany whispered to her friend, clutching her script like a holy relic. "It wasn't just a look. It was a narrative."
Chen Feng, however, remained blissfully oblivious—or at least, he pretended to be. He was currently busy teaching a sophomore how to "scream into the void" without straining his vocal cords.
Late one evening, after the last student had left and Gary was busy mopping up "emotional residue" (which looked suspiciously like spilled soda) from the stage, Chen Feng sat in the darkened theater.
He pulled a single, perfectly salted dried fish from his pocket—a snack he had brought from the East. He chewed it thoughtfully, staring at the empty rows of seats.
"Gary," he said, his voice echoing in the rafters. "What does it mean to be a Salted Fish?"
"It means you're lazy, Boss," Gary grunted, not looking up from his mop.
"No," Chen Feng mused. "The Salted Fish is the ultimate master of existence. A fish that is salted has given up on the struggle of the ocean. It doesn't swim against the current; it becomes the current's flavor. I thought being a thief or a librarian would bring me peace, but I was still 'doing' things. Here... I am just the stage. I am the background for these children's dramas."
He looked at the Manuscript of Fate resting on a prop throne. "To be a Salted Fish is to have the power to change everything, but the wisdom to change nothing except the vibe of the room."
The peace, however, was on a timer. Every time Chen Feng looked at the clock in the hallway, he felt the spiritual pressure of Lin Xia getting closer. She wasn't just traveling; she was a looming atmospheric event.
The school's "Drama Queen," a girl named Madison who had won "Best Actress" three years running, noticed Chen Feng's distracted gaze.
"Mr. Chen," Madison purred, leaning against the stage door. "You seem anxious about the new exchange student. Is she... talented?"
"Madison," Chen Feng said, a flicker of dark humor dancing in his eyes. "Let's just say that when she arrives, the 'Drama' in this room will no longer be a simulation. You've been playing at tragedy. She is a tragedy, a comedy, and a blockbuster action sequence rolled into one."
As he walked out of the school that night, he saw a black bird perched on his car—the same raven from the library. It had a new note: "Flight 402. Gate 12. Bring a shield."
"Gary, pack the good costumes," Chen Feng sighed. "The leading lady is landing tomorrow. And I suspect she isn't here for the extracurricular credit."