Chapter 19: Exhibition

“Sigh, really, really. Look, I don’t owe you money, nor did I steal your thunder. Why would I avoid you? Bai Yingchuan, please don’t be so paranoid.”

Only then did Bai Yingchuan let go of his hand. As Jiang Ruotang passed by, he heard Bai Yingchuan mutter softly, “Liar.”

If this were his previous life, hearing Bai Yingchuan say that would have sent Jiang Ruotang into a frenzy of explanations, so upset he wouldn’t sleep that night.

But now, Jiang Ruotang thought, We’re not even that close. “If that’s what you think, there’s nothing I can do.”

After saying it, he froze.

Wait, what kind of playboy line is that?

But man, it felt good to say.

Bai Yingchuan stared at Jiang Ruotang, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he’d truly been played.

After tossing the trash, Jiang Ruotang brushed past him nonchalantly and returned to the classroom.

The daily life of a senior year student: lie down whenever possible. Sleep is precious.

Just as Jiang Ruotang was about to flop onto his desk, he noticed a pink Peppa Pig lunchbox on it, cleaned spotless. Look at this kid, he thought. So well-behaved and thoughtful, even washing the lunchbox after eating.

This must be what they mean by “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Pfft, no, no, no. It’s more like looking at the little brother he’d taken under his wing and thinking even his farts smell sweet.

Zhao Changfeng, who sat behind him, was already gone—probably at a competition this afternoon.

Jiang Ruotang pulled out his phone and sent Zhao Changfeng a message: [Does winning the provincial championship get you a Level 2 Athlete certificate? I’ve never seen one!]

After a long wait, Zhao Changfeng replied: [Country bumpkin, I got mine last year.]

Then, Zhao sent a photo of his Level 2 certificate.

This photo… It was rough, like he’d just rolled out of bed without brushing his teeth or washing his face.

[Scared me to death. You look like a wanted fugitive in this!]

[Can’t spit ivory from a dog’s mouth. Get lost!]

Jiang Ruotang chuckled. This banter felt just like the old days when Zhao Changfeng would chat with him during work breaks in his past life.

[Send me the competition video. Sister Juan wants to see it too.]

Yes, Sister Juan was his go-to excuse, ready to be deployed anywhere.

[Got it.]

Jiang Ruotang put his phone down, flopped onto the desk, tilted his head, and fell asleep.

As Bai Yingchuan passed by, he saw Jiang Ruotang’s carefree expression.

That evening, while other students attended self-study, Jiang Ruotang, as an art student, headed to the art studio.

Normally, he’d leave through the front door, but for some reason, he chose the back door today—because it meant passing Lu Guifan’s desk.

Lu Guifan’s desk had a stack of practice books and mock exams at one corner. He was focused, head down, working on physics competition problems. From Jiang Ruotang’s angle, all he could see was the pale nape of Lu Guifan’s neck.

Jiang Ruotang knew he shouldn’t disturb him, but he didn’t realize he’d lingered by the desk for nearly ten seconds.

“What’s up?” Lu Guifan looked up.

“Oh… I’ll be at the art studio until 9:30… I’m worried I might not understand some problems when I get home…”

“Send them to me.”

A weight lifted from Jiang Ruotang’s heart. Good, he hadn’t annoyed Lu Guifan.

Though he’d gotten what he wanted, he still needed to be polite.

“Will it interrupt your studying?”

“With your level, not likely.”

Jiang Ruotang: …

Give me back the gentle, good-tempered Lu Guifan from my last life!

Xiao Gao was already at the school gate to pick him up. Returning to the art studio after so many years, Jiang Ruotang felt a mix of anticipation and unease.

In his past life, after becoming Bai Yingchuan’s manager, he’d never touched a paintbrush again.

He used to love painting, capturing Bai Yingchuan’s likeness countless times—every line, shadow, light, and shade, in black-and-white or color, infused with the fiery passion in his heart, preserving Bai Yingchuan’s image on paper and canvas.

But if the other person didn’t reciprocate those feelings, the more he painted, the more it became an offense.

Jiang Ruotang’s teacher was Liang Zhen, a renowned local art exam instructor.

The studio was already filled with students. Jiang Ruotang, having “returned” midstream, hadn’t seen Teacher Liang’s schedule and didn’t know today’s theme. He only noticed a draped cloth in the center of the room, covering what looked like a plaster statue.

He found a spot, set up his easel, and waited for Teacher Liang.

When Liang Zhen unveiled the statue, gasps filled the room. The plaster figure had no distinct facial features—sunken eye sockets, a vague nose bridge, an unfinished piece.

“Painting sometimes requires imagination,” Liang Zhen said, resting a hand on the statue. “The light and shadows are already here. Imagine this statue as someone in your heart and paint them.”

Jiang Ruotang guessed Liang Zhen wasn’t training them on facial features but on visualizing light and shadow in their minds.

After some murmurs, the students began painting.

In the past, Jiang Ruotang would have painted Bai Yingchuan without hesitation.

Bai Yingchuan’s features—the curves and angles from every perspective—were etched into his mind like a brand.

But now, that image was fading.

Or rather, it no longer held meaning, unable to spark his creative desire.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else, someone more important, in his mind.

Jiang Ruotang focused, his brush scratching softly against the paper.

Nearby students occasionally glanced over, knowing he was Bai Yingchuan’s ardent admirer. His portraits of Bai were not only lifelike but breathtakingly beautiful.

Liang Zhen, hands in pockets, strolled slowly among the students. When he passed Jiang Ruotang, his gaze flicked to the easel, and he paused beside him.

Jiang Ruotang, oblivious, layered light and shadow until the class ended. Exhaling, he set his brush down and only then noticed someone behind him.

Turning, he saw Liang Zhen, arms crossed, chin in hand, studying his work thoughtfully.

“Teacher Liang…” Jiang Ruotang jumped, completely unaware of his presence.

“Hm,” Liang Zhen responded softly.

Because Liang Zhen had lingered so long, other students grew curious, eager to see what Jiang Ruotang had painted.

“Hey, Jiang Ruotang didn’t paint Bai Yingchuan today?”

“Then who did he paint?”

“No idea, but it’s…”

The students struggled to find the right word.

“Beautiful,” a female student said.

The painting depicted a man with delicate, striking features and a sharp, cold jawline. Yet, under Jiang Ruotang’s brushstrokes and interplay of light and shadow, a subtle tenderness emerged.

Anyone who saw the painting found their gaze drawn into it.

“Your technique has regressed since last semester’s training,” Liang Zhen remarked.

Jiang Ruotang’s fingers trembled.

Of course it had. In his past life, after his father’s incident, he’d barely painted. Only when hospitalized with cancer, no longer burning himself out for Bai Yingchuan’s empty promises, did he pick up a brush again.

He painted park squirrels, trees, elderly people, and those dear to him—Zhao Changfeng, Zhao Yunshu, and… Lu Guifan.

It was all from the heart, a way to pass time and express longing.

“Sorry, Teacher Liang… I haven’t practiced in a while, so I’m rusty,” Jiang Ruotang said, lowering his head.

“Stay after class. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.”

Jiang Ruotang took a deep breath. Dreaming of getting into the Capital Academy of Fine Arts? Forget the academic scores—his artistic skills were a bigger problem now.

Liang Zhen said no more, moving on to guide other students.

As a senior student left, she whispered to Jiang Ruotang, “Even if Teacher Liang says your technique regressed, I think it’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” Jiang Ruotang said, assuming she was just comforting him.

“The first word that came to mind when I saw this painting…”

“What?”

“Long-awaited reunion.”

She darted off as Liang Zhen’s gaze swept over.

Finally, the other students left, leaving Jiang Ruotang alone.

Liang Zhen sat beside him.

“Who’s this?”

“Oh? Just… a classmate.”

Liang Zhen smiled. “Just a classmate? Do you know what the best artworks convey most?”

Jiang Ruotang answered, “The artist’s thoughts?”

“Hahaha! Thoughts? Aren’t they like reading comprehension in a literature exam? A thousand people see a thousand different silhouettes, little orange lanterns, or moonlit ponds. Why should there be a standard answer?”

“Then what is it?”

“Emotion,” Liang Zhen said, looking at him. “Watching you paint, seeing this figure take shape, the first phrase that came to mind was ‘long-awaited reunion.’ Trust, longing, and a restrained urge to rush toward him.”

Such emotions were moving.

Jiang Ruotang pinched his fingertips, murmuring, “He’s my best and most important friend in this world… but right now, we’re not that close.”

Liang Zhen looked at Jiang Ruotang’s downcast eyes and smiled faintly.

“I have three slots to send works by students aged 18 to 21 to the ‘Raw Stone’ art exhibition hosted by Mr. Fu Chunshi.”

“Oh.”

Fu Chunshi, a modern art master, launched the “Raw Stone” project to discover domestic painting talents. It allowed those not yet in top art academies to compete, even without formal training. If selected, Fu Chunshi would mentor them personally, becoming their guide.

Two senior students had already had their works submitted—both with impeccable techniques, already scouted by top academy instructors.