Chapter 3: Gender Change, Liu Wangjiang

Snowflakes drifted lightly from the sky.

On a street in Nanbo City, pedestrians hurried along, except for a purple-haired thug with scars, leaning against a roadside tree.

He puffed on a cigarette, spitting onto the ground with no regard for civility. Squinting, his face glowed with the relief nicotine brought.

But as he raised the cigarette for another drag, something felt off—his thick cotton jacket was slipping down, loose. He reached to pull it up, but his pupils shrank.

His arms, once tanned and tattooed, were now pale as lotus roots, smooth and glossy, not a mark in sight.

He frantically pressed a hand to his forehead, wondering if a fever from some STD was causing hallucinations. But the skin under his fingertips was delicate as white jade, smoother than any woman he’d ever touched.

For some reason, his chest itched, tight and constricting.

The purple-haired thug lowered his head stiffly. The flash of a white curve before his eyes shattered his worldview. With a thud, she collapsed to the ground, letting out a warped scream.

“Tch, tch, tch. Human experiment: success.”

In the shadows, Lu Qingqi watched the “purple-haired girl” sprawled on the ground, screaming in panic, a smirk curling her lips.

As the saying goes, give a man a sharp weapon, and he’ll want to kill; give him a hammer, and everything’s a nail. Lu Qingqi, a die-hard chuunibyou novel fan, now held such a “hammer,” and everyone she saw was begging to be gender-swapped.

Women into men, men into women, curvy figures into broad shoulders, towering pines into plump curves.

All for a bit of fun.

She snapped her fingers casually, reverting the thug. The “purple-haired girl,” sobbing on the ground, morphed back into a gangster. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, tearing open his jacket and yanking down his pants in public to check again and again.

Lu Qingqi ignored the chaos that followed, wolfed down her breakfast in a few bites, and turned away.

She was a textbook playboy. Changing the guy back was her idea of “responsibility.” Whether he’d get hauled off by the cops for public nudity and “invited for tea,” that wasn’t her problem.

She tossed the plastic bag into the trash, but her stomach still growled—the usual portion that filled her up only half-sated her today.

Still, picturing Liu Wangjiang’s face collapsing into tears after her prank, Lu Qingqi’s hunger vanished. She quickened her pace, eager.

The exhibition wasn’t crowded, but a steady stream of visitors milled about, clustering before paintings, murmuring critiques.

Honestly, if her girlfriend weren’t a painter obsessed with art, Lu Qingqi wouldn’t bother with these incomprehensible scribbles.

Random lines on a blank page—art? A half-eaten apple—art? A broken plate glued together—art?

Not as good as the 2D waifus she cherished at home.

“Xue’er, over here!” Spotting a familiar figure in the crowd, she waved and shouted.

The figure turned: striking long white hair, a queenly aura, a silver-white handbag slung over her shoulder, a snow-white padded jacket, and long boots hugging slender legs.

It was her girlfriend, Yuki Shirahara, her partner since high school through college graduation.

“Qingqi, you made it.”

Her tall, regal girlfriend approached. Lu Qingqi, half a head shorter and far less mature, stood out. If Yuki Shirahara was a cool, artistic painter, Lu Qingqi was like an ungraduated college kid, eyes still brimming with naive mischief.

“I’m here. Gotta keep my word, right?” Lu Qingqi grinned, sidling closer. “Said I’d come to the exhibition, so I’m here. By the way, Xue’er, aren’t you cold in that? Want me to rub your arms?”

She reached eagerly for the white-haired woman’s arm, craving closeness, but was gently stopped.

A slender, pale finger wagged before her eyes. Yuki Shirahara shook her head, her tone firm yet tinged with exasperation. “Qingqi, remember our three rules.”

“Qingqi, remember our three rules.”

At that, the excited girl deflated, head drooping like a scolded puppy.

The three rules were promises Lu Qingqi made in high school to win Yuki Shirahara’s heart.

Rule One: Yuki Shirahara had mild mysophobia—no touching without permission.

Rule Two: Yuki Shirahara wanted a platonic relationship—no overly intimate actions during their romance.

Rule Three: Yuki Shirahara believed in pure love—no relationships beyond friendship with other women before a breakup.

To others, these rules might scream exploitation, branding any guy who agreed a “simp.” But Lu Qingqi signed up.

Why? First, Yuki Shirahara was genuinely a good person. Second, unlike those online “gold diggers” always asking for cash, she often paid for their dinners.

Most importantly, Yuki Shirahara’s looks were her type—long legs, full figure, queenly vibe, and that cool artist’s aura. It was like she was crafted for her by the heavens.

“Come on, let’s check out the paintings.” Seeing the girl’s dejected slump, Yuki Shirahara gently poked her head. After a pause, as if recalling something, she added, “Your birthday’s in a few weeks. I’ve got a gift ready—you’ll love it.”

Instantly, the spark returned to Lu Qingqi’s eyes.

They strolled through the crowd.

The paintings were either abstract to the point of nonsense or bafflingly chaotic. Yet, before each one, some “expert” always popped up, suddenly “getting it,” gushing over the art and lecturing those nearby.

Gradually, they reached the final painting.

Lu Qingqi was already half-asleep—art was like math. If you didn’t get it, no amount of staring helped. The only difference? Math actually had value.

She forced herself to stay awake, planning to view this last piece and whisk Yuki Shirahara away. Then, two voices caught her ear.

“Master Chen’s painting seems to use Nelson Goode’s technique, capturing the imperceptible…”

“Mr. Liu, you’ve got a sharp eye! This piece took me three months in seclusion…”

Mr. Liu?

Liu Wangjiang!

Lu Qingqi’s head snapped toward the voices—a man with long hair and an artistic air stood beside another, smiling.

He was sharply dressed, a gleaming Rolex on his wrist, his manners refined and noble. Those deep purple eyes made him look like a character from a novel.

Liu Wangjiang?

Yes, Liu Wangjiang!

She’d nearly forgotten—this was the whole point of coming to the exhibition!

The two chatted a bit more about the new piece. Liu Wangjiang said, “One moment,” and headed toward the restroom.

Lu Qingqi ignored her girlfriend, who was starry-eyed over the painting, and slipped after him.

Liu Wangjiang, twenty-six, a few months older than her.

As kids, they got along, practically playmates. But by junior high, their bond faded. In high school, an incident severed it completely, leaving them bitter enemies.

If it were just a falling-out, fine—she could’ve gotten even. Everyone in Nanbo City’s rich-kid circle knew Lu Qingqi held grudges. But Liu Wangjiang had her beat in height, fights, and family influence. Dirty tricks? Her family’s clout couldn’t touch the Lius’.

But that was then. This was now.

The thought of Liu Wangjiang turning into a girl under her power, breaking down in tears, showing his most vulnerable side before her—it set her heart racing.

The seed of revenge in her chest sprouted wildly, vines coiling around her nerves, sparking a dark, feverish thrill.

As Liu Wangjiang took his final step into the men’s restroom, Lu Qingqi, trailing behind, acted. She tapped him lightly with her fingertips, whispering in her mind:

“Change.”