Healing the Black Lotus Female Supporting Character (Transmigration into a Book - ABO) - Chapter 7

“That 30 I got in Chemistry? That was way back in first year, okay?” Lu Qianzi muttered. “You know what they say, ‘Shame brings courage’… Anyway, what did you just say? Hua You told you a secret while I was in the shower?!”

Not only Lu Qianzi, even Bian Chengyi seemed to stop breathing for a second.

“You won’t believe it, she told me she likes…” As they turned the corner, Lin Lingwan caught sight of Bian Chengyi—and visibly froze in surprise. Bian Chengyi’s slightly stiff expression didn’t go unnoticed by her. After a beat, she said, “Class rep, you’re here to check the results too?”

“Yeah, I already did.” Bian Chengyi returned to her usual calm, even smiling politely at Lu Qianzi. “You made the Chemistry honors list. Congratulations.”

Lu Qianzi let out a soft squeal of delight, her eyes crinkling. “That’s awesome! Thanks for checking for me, class rep.”

“You were in the top three—hard to miss. It wasn’t like I was trying to see it,” Bian Chengyi said with a slight tilt of her head. Then she nodded at both of them and walked away.

The moment the bell rang for evening self-study, Hua You stepped into the classroom. Her hair was completely soaked, as if she hadn’t even tried to towel it off. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, and her shoulders were damp with water stains. Standing at the podium, Bian Chengyi gave her a once-over before saying calmly, “Take your seat.”

Only then did Hua You seem to realize it was Bian Chengyi at the front. Her eyes lit up a little. She pulled a lollipop from her mouth—one of the many snacks Bian Chengyi had once bought her. Strawberry flavor. She smiled and gave Bian Chengyi a slight nod, like they were old friends with an unspoken understanding, then quietly returned to her seat.

Bian Chengyi twirled her pen and swept her gaze around the classroom. Though her demeanor was soft and delicate, anywhere her eyes landed, the room seemed to fall silent, like a rising tide pressed beneath a glass pane—lift the pane, and a storm would break loose.

If Class 3, Grade 12 had a trending topic, it would undoubtedly be: “Bian Chengyi and Hua You are on good terms again.”

Even Fang Jinyu couldn’t quite believe it. Her eyes followed Hua You as she skipped toward her seat in the back row, like she was watching a talking deer cheerfully greet her. “Unbelievable” wasn’t even close to describing it. That deer, now deep in the forest, came to a halt.

Hua You frowned slightly. The last row was crammed—no space left between desks and chairs.

“Move forward a bit, Qin Jing,” Hua You said, calmly but firmly.

Qin Jing didn’t respond, still hunched over her math homework.

But Hua You wasn’t one to back down. She simply swept her things across one end of the desk—books scattering onto the floor—and sat right on top, unbothered, ready to start the evening session.

Half an hour into self-study, a teacher usually came in for one period. After that, the rest of the time was for self-directed study. Which meant, for now, no teacher was around to maintain order—only Bian Chengyi, as class monitor, could take charge.

Hua You glanced at the 25% progress bar on her study app and figured she’d muddle through on her own.

Unexpectedly, Bian Chengyi stepped down from the podium. Her voice was as soft and cool as ever, devoid of strong emotion. “Qin Jing, could you please move your seat forward a little?”

Qin Jing’s tone remained polite, even with a touch of subtle grievance. “Class rep, you’re supposed to look out for everyone. Didn’t you see? My seat’s small too. This whole row is tight—it’s not just up to me.”

Hua You scoffed internally. She didn’t believe for a second that anyone but Qin Jing had pushed the desks that close together before class started.

Bian Chengyi nodded slightly. “Fair point.” She turned her gaze down the row. One by one, the students along the line began to shift forward on their own, leaving a sizable gap in front of Qin Jing’s desk.

Qin Jing: “…”

Without another word, Bian Chengyi turned and walked away, leaving Qin Jing awkwardly in place.

Hua You couldn’t help but be impressed. The timing, the entrance and exit—she handled this kind of petty drama like a seasoned pro.

The memories left behind by the original Hua You had always painted Bian Chengyi in a negative light. To her, Bian Chengyi’s attitude and behavior were tinged with subconscious disapproval—plainly put, prejudice.

But now that a new soul inhabited Hua You’s body, and she could observe Bian Chengyi’s actions without bias, she realized that Bian Chengyi actually handled things with remarkable tact—asserting her interests while also protecting those aligned with her.

Just like now.

As the one being protected, Hua You leaned back and watched the scene unfold with amused detachment. Qin Jing, after holding out for a moment, finally slid her chair forward.

The classroom, which had erupted into whispers and chatter when Hua You entered, quieted again as she sat down. Everyone was back to scribbling frantically. In this final year of high school, if you didn’t make every second of evening study count, it was impossible to finish assignments for all nine subjects. Many had resorted to outsmarting the dorm managers, working through the early hours before sunrise.

Hua You flipped through a couple of test papers and felt it was truly a disservice to her hands to be doing them.

Still, to keep her “character” from collapsing too dramatically, she decided to start with English. The original Hua You had loved English. Apart from PE, she was terrible in every subject—but English had been an outlier. In her words, she wanted to “travel the world,” and English was a non-negotiable foundation.

“Fool.”

Hua You let out a light sigh and began working on her English assignment.

The original novel was a gentle, well-crafted piece of fiction. Even characters like Hua You—antagonists or background cannon fodder—were given tragic backstories that made their personalities and motives more believable. Just when the reader started to understand them, the author would sprinkle in a few redeeming traits, only to lead them into a heartbreakingly bleak ending. It was, undeniably, the work of a mature writer.

If one truly wants to travel the world, the first thing they must gain is complete autonomy—and that always comes with a period of sacrifice. No freedom comes without a price. And if it seems to, that’s only because someone else has paid that price for you.

In a flash, thirty minutes passed. Hua You had nearly completed an entire English paper—minus the written translation section.

Tonight’s class was English, and they were reviewing the recent monthly exam. Hua You glanced at the original Hua You’s score—just over a hundred. Not bad. Their English teacher, Mr. Liu, praised Bian Chengyi by name for scoring over 130, then began the warm-up activity: randomly selecting students to translate sentences.

As luck would have it, Hua You was called first.

“‘Youth is fleeting, like a flash in the pan, so we must cherish our time,’” Mr. Liu read aloud. “Hua You, want to give it a try?”

Mr. Liu had always had a soft spot for Hua You. He liked calling on her during class. Then he called on Bian Chengyi as well. “Chengyi, you try it too. Both of you, go write it on the board.”

The challenge in the sentence lay in translating “昙花一现” (tan hua yi xian).

One could translate it literally—the phrase means something short-lived, something that disappears quickly. A straightforward interpretation wouldn’t be marked wrong. But Hua You, of course, knew the most standard translation: “a flash in the pan.”

Good translation is about fidelity, fluency, and elegance—not just literal meaning. When a standardized phrase exists, it’s always preferred.

When Hua You finished writing and stepped aside, a gasp rippled through the classroom.

Only then did she glance over—and saw that Bian Chengyi had written the exact same sentence.

She shot Bian Chengyi a playful smile, proud of their shared insight, like warriors recognizing each other on the battlefield. Bian Chengyi, her head slightly bowed, showed no surprise at all. As if this was entirely expected—that Hua You could match her word for word.

Mr. Liu nodded approvingly. “Both of you captured the essence of the sentence. It’s clear you’ve been accumulating strong translation skills beyond the textbook. Well done. You may sit down.” He gave Hua You’s head a gentle pat. “Especially you, Xiao You. I think you’ll do even better on the next exam.”

Hua You scratched her head sheepishly. “I’ll work harder, sir.”

“Of course, don’t slack off in other subjects either,” Mr. Liu added meaningfully. The class burst into laughter. Hua You could only smile helplessly, recalling her infamous academic record.

“I’ll work on everything, Mr. Liu. You can count on me.”

When evening study ended, Hua You originally planned to leave with Qin Jing. But Qin Jing had already slung her bag over her shoulder and linked arms with Pei Fei, saying sweetly, “Feifei, let’s go home together tonight.”

Pei Fei—the studious girl from Hua You’s dorm—fidgeted with her glasses and gave Hua You an uncertain look, clearly unsure whether she should go.

Hua You didn’t mind at all. In fact, she welcomed someone else taking that burden off her hands. She spread her hands and nodded toward them, signaling them to go ahead.

She was on classroom duty tonight. After wiping the blackboard and saying goodbye to the other duty student, she began walking alone toward the dorm building in the dark.

But before she could even leave the school building, she saw a lone figure standing under the moonlight.

It was Bian Chengyi.

If Hua You guessed correctly about her elders’ intentions, the name “Chengyi” likely came from Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River:

“Bright eyes and graceful glances, dimples nestling in soft cheeks. Her elegant figure radiant and refined, her poised demeanor tranquil and delicate.”

Standing there under the moonlight, Bian Chengyi was the very embodiment of that verse.

The moonlight fell like frost, tinting her dark hair with a silvery sheen. Her long, side-swept bangs were casually held in place by a dark-colored hair clip. Her eyes, calm and deep, mirrored the stillness of the ocean. She quietly closed her phone—it was the only window of time between evening study and morning classes when phone use was allowed. She looked at Hua You without a trace of emotion.

She had been waiting.

Realizing this, Hua You knew she had to say something.

“Sister Bian…” she said softly, using the affectionate nickname they shared in private. Tilting her head innocently, she asked, “Were you waiting for me?”

You have no idea.

Bian Chengyi exhaled slowly, digging her nails into the palm of her hand. The look in Hua You’s eyes—it was like a deer frozen under a hunter’s gaze, smiling at the barrel of a gun, capturing that single vivid instant before fate delivered its verdict.

“I think… the addictive nature of a temporary mark is far worse than I anticipated.”

She lowered her head as she spoke, her voice quiet:

“I shouldn’t have helped you.”

Hua You leaned in, unable to hear clearly what she said. All she saw was Bian Chengyi leaning against the column at the entrance, appearing unbearably lonely, as if the cold tones of the entire night had been poured onto her alone.

Suddenly, Bian Chengyi grabbed Hua You’s hand and brought it close to her lips.

“A flash in the pan,” she murmured.

Her gaze turned hazy, fixed on Hua You standing in front of her.

“I’m afraid you’ll go back to who you were tomorrow… so—excuse me for this.”

Then, she extended the tip of her tongue and gently licked Hua You’s fingertip.