I Miss You Even in the Daytime [Rebirth GL] - Chapter 27

The vast venue was cast into dim shadows by the stage lights. People all around craned their necks to look, eager to see just what kind of person dared to commit plagiarism at a national drama festival.

Xu Liming felt her mouth go dry, and the inside of her knees felt as if they were filled with grit, creaking as she moved. Nevertheless, she walked toward the center of the stage.

Her brain felt as if it were on fast-forward, whirring at high speed.

More and more gazes converged on her. Su Lihua and Xu Ning clearly saw her, watching her every step as she ascended the stage.

Xu Liming didn’t look around, yet she inexplicably felt many familiar gazes: some were smug, some were looking for a show, and others were deeply worried.

Xu Liming had stood on many stages before, but most of the time it was during rehearsals or curtain calls. When it was crowded, the stage didn’t feel so empty. This time, however, the stage seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, so large that she felt a pang of panic.

She came to a halt under the lights.

“You’re Xu Liming, right?” Su Lihua asked. She had a face where the corners of her mouth naturally turned downward; when she wasn’t smiling, she looked angry, giving off a strong sense of pressure.

“Hello, Teacher,” Xu Liming replied. She glanced at the boy who claimed she had plagiarized; he was sizing her up through his lenses.

That look was incredibly uncomfortable, as if he were already sentencing her.

“Regarding what Student Xu Ning said, do you have anything to…” Su Lihua moved her jaw slightly.

Xu Liming took the microphone from her hand and spoke calmly: “First, I have never watched Again, and I am not the screenwriter for The Third Life. Second, the burden of proof lies with the accuser. Since this student says I plagiarized, please present the evidence.”

“Based solely on a verbal accusation, I have reason to suspect you are using the opportunity right before we go on stage to slander us, in order to influence our scores.”

Although Xu Liming’s heart was pounding, she didn’t show it outwardly. In the eyes of anyone watching, she appeared exceptionally calm and logically clear.

However, the most fatal point for her was that she wasn’t the screenwriter of The Third Life—the mysterious “Comma” was. If that person truly had “borrowed” from someone else’s work, it was something she had no way to guard against.

And with the screenwriter absent, she found it hard to defend herself.

“Rest assured, Student. If there wasn’t concrete evidence, I certainly wouldn’t accuse you during the competition.” Xu Ning maintained his polite facade and handed a set of printed materials to Su Lihua and Xu Liming.

He then hopped off the stage to distribute the materials to every judge.

“Teachers, this is a comparison of the plots of the two scripts I compiled overnight. The parts highlighted in red are the similar content.” He walked back onto the stage. “While the screenwriter’s ability to ‘wash’ the text is impressive, it’s not hard to see that the logic lines of the two stories are almost identical.”

This person’s motives are not pure. This was Xu Liming’s first thought.

Regardless of whether he truly suspected plagiarism, after learning the content of her script, he didn’t choose to contact her first to communicate. Instead, he chose to accuse her by name directly during the competition.

This greatly reduced Xu Liming’s reaction time, catching her completely off guard. Having never seen his Again, she had no way to argue for herself.

After all, for many people, once suspicion arises, the guilt is established. Especially for a charge like “plagiarism,” which requires a vast amount of time to clarify—and sometimes can never be fully cleared.

The teachers browsing the documents all had their brows furrowed. Xu Liming also quickly scanned the “color palette” comparison, and the more she looked, the more her heart sank.

While these points alone couldn’t strictly define plagiarism, it wasn’t impossible to pin a charge of “text-washing” on her. In the comparison he made, there were indeed similarities in certain wording and major plot points.

Extreme tension made her mind go blank. Xu Liming surreptitiously bit her lip; the pain brought back her logical thinking.

“Teacher Su, let’s discuss this after they leave the stage. Let this group finish their performance first, otherwise it will affect the progress of the other students,” a white-haired judge said from below.

Su Lihua was about to nod, but Xu Liming suddenly spoke up to interrupt them.

“Excuse me, teachers and students.” She held the microphone, her voice neither humble nor arrogant. “I request that we reach a conclusion on this matter right here on stage. If this incident affects the actors’ state of mind, and subsequently affects our group’s score, I don’t think Student Xu Ning can take responsibility for that.”

Su Lihua locked eyes with the other judges. Though she looked troubled, she didn’t stop Xu Liming from continuing.

“I would like to ask this student: for the sake of fairness, our script should be confidential to other participants before the performance. How did you obtain our script? Or rather, besides our script, have you tried to research the scripts of other groups as well?”

This was a mixed tactic of psychological warfare and stalling, primarily to buy herself time to think.

As expected, once Xu Liming pointed this out, a buzzing murmur broke out from the backstage area.

Xu Ning hadn’t expected Xu Liming to attack from this angle. He was momentarily speechless, but he was clearly experienced with large crowds and responded immediately: “I apologize to you for learning the content of your script by chance.”

“However, the regulations do not state that we cannot learn about the works of other participants. The so-called script confidentiality is just an unwritten rule everyone follows to protect themselves. Therefore, I don’t think I need to disclose the exact nature of that ‘chance’ to you.”

“What we should be discussing now is whether The Third Life constitutes plagiarism.” Xu Ning pushed up his glasses. “Of course, legal regulations regarding ‘text-washing’ are currently not very clear. So, whatever judgment the teachers make, we will accept it.”

Under her immense rage, Xu Liming was almost driven to laughter. This man’s words meant: even if you didn’t plagiarize, you washed the text, and there’s no need to explain.

“Is that sentence intended to lead the teachers into judging me for text-washing?” Xu Liming actually smiled. “Regardless of whether we plagiarized or not, we have to be branded as unoriginal?”

“Of course not, I didn’t say that,” Xu Ning replied.

Playing sophistry with me, are you? Xu Liming stared at him fixedly.

The core principle of sophistry is to never fall into the whirlpool of self-justification.

“Fine, then I have a question for you.” Xu Liming looked at the material in her hand. “I believe most people here have not seen your 2023 work Again, so they can only judge the similarity based on the text version you provided.”

“So, has the script for Again that you provided been formally published?” she asked. “Or is there a file transfer record, or any kind of record that proves the content of your script has never been modified?”

Xu Ning opened his mouth, his gaze beginning to wander. After thinking for a moment, he replied, “It’s been too long, those records were deleted long ago.”

“Then the so-called evidence you are providing today cannot be called evidence.” Xu Liming set the comparison document down. “If you still have suspicions, you are welcome to provide a comparison of the final works to the judges after the midterm check is over.”

“Otherwise, I have reason to suspect that you modified your own script after seeing the script for The Third Life just to frame us.”

Xu Ning was no longer so confident; he even knit his brows in a bit of a panic. “Impossible, I’m not that bored!”

“You’re just using twisted logic…” Xu Ning’s voice grew louder.

“Excuse me, this is just reasonable suspicion,” Xu Liming replied with a smile, echoing his own rhetoric.

At this stage, she had completed her preliminary counterattack. The rest would have to wait until they left the stage.

Xu Liming’s palm holding the microphone was soaked with sweat. She used her peripheral vision to scan the judges; they were whispering among themselves, while Su Lihua fell into deep thought.

“Teachers, this is my response. Because this evidence-less accusation may have caused a psychological burden on my crew, I request to swap the performance order and have us perform one slot later.” Xu Liming spoke sincerely to the judges.

After the social tempering of the two years following her graduation in her past life, she was quite good at “official” talk.

She didn’t see that behind the judges’ seats, a tensed figure let out a sigh of relief and slowly relaxed her shoulders.

“Alright, Student Xu Ning, we have received your query and will give you an answer later.” Su Lihua spoke, patting Xu Liming’s shoulder in comfort. “Then we shall continue with…”

Suddenly, someone on the judges’ panel spoke up, interrupting her.

“You’re Student Xu Liming, right?” The white-haired judge spoke slowly. “I’d like to ask, is your screenwriter here at the venue?”

Xu Liming’s heart, which had just settled, was instantly hoisted back into the air. She paused for a moment and replied, “No.”

“I’ve looked at your entry information.” The judge leafed through some papers. “The screenwriter’s name is not specified on your participant list.”

Xu Liming began to sweat again, her palms damp. She gripped the microphone and replied, “Yes, but the registration requirements didn’t say we had to specify the information of every member.”

“That is true.” The judge’s voice was indistinct. “But regarding whether the script is plagiarized, although you as the director should be responsible, I think the screenwriter should also come forward to explain.”

Which school did this old fogey come from? If she weren’t in front of everyone, Xu Liming would have wanted to yell at him. Her intention was to dispel the judges’ prejudice and deal with everything after the evaluation, but his question pushed her back into a disadvantageous position.

She suppressed her emotions and spoke coldly, “Teacher, I think whether the screenwriter is here or not doesn’t affect—”

“Wait.”

Someone interrupted her. It was a very weak voice coming from very, very far away, barely audible in the vast venue.

“Wait!” the person shouted again. Xu Liming squinted toward the audience and saw an ant-like figure running toward her.

Two legs moved in a blur, a neat ponytail flew up and down, glasses slipped to the tip of a nose, and the wind scattered the stray hairs on her forehead.

That was…

Lu Baitian!?

Xu Liming didn’t know why she was coming up; she was so shocked she forgot to continue. The fast-moving Lu Baitian clearly caught the attention of everyone else as well.

Everyone watched in bewilderment as that inconspicuous volunteer leapt out from the darkness, running toward the stage with all her might.

She reached the stage quickly. Xu Liming instinctively reached out to pull her up.

The girl was very light, feeling as if she were hoisted onto the stage. The figure landed nimbly by her side and snatched the microphone from Xu Liming’s hand.

Lu Baitian, who would tremble whenever she got nervous, was shaking even in her breath. Having never been the center of such attention, she gripped the microphone with both hands.

“Xu Liming did not plagiarize.”

“I am the screenwriter of The Third Life,” she said, panting. “I have evidence. We did not plagiarize!”