Bai Yingchuan tilted his head, a faint, unnatural smile tugging at his lips as he awaited Jiang Ruotang’s reply.

[When you become the theme for the art school entrance exam, I’ll stop being half-hearted.]

That reply ended the conversation. Jiang Ruotang tossed his phone on the table and went to shower.

---

The next day, Mu Xianqing, as the operator of Deep Blue Gallery, was invited to judge submissions for Fu Chunshi’s “Raw Stone” art exhibition in the city.

Though young in the industry, his family—grandfather to father—were renowned collectors, with top-tier expertise in appraisal and business.

After reviewing pieces with older judges, listening to their rigid discussions, Mu Xianqing stifled a yawn, feeling drowsy.

The submitted works had solid techniques, but no amount of polish could hide their hollow cores. Mu Xianqing rubbed his eyes.

These people could be great teachers, but not artists.

Then, Tang Chen, a seventy-something painter, spoke up. “This piece is good… it’s got real feeling.”

Tang Chen was picky and principled, never coasting on his age or clinging to tradition.

Mu Xianqing respected his discerning taste, as they shared a pursuit of art that expressed emotion over mere skill.

Looking over, Mu Xianqing saw Tang Chen holding a sketch.

With two-thirds of the entries being watercolors or oils, a portrait sketch stood out.

Tang Chen studied it, stroking his chin. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen such strong emotional expression.”

That praise hooked Mu Xianqing—he couldn’t sit still. But Tang Chen, engrossed, admired it for a full minute without passing it over.

“Teacher Tang, can I take a look?”

“Oh, sure. You’ll like this one,” Tang Chen said, smiling as he handed it over.

Mu Xianqing was captivated at first glance.

The man in the sketch had striking features, unlike glossy drama stars. He exuded intellect and solitude.

The dense lines covering the paper somehow connected the man to the world, softening his loneliness with warmth.

Mu Xianqing’s first thought was love.

It had been ages since he’d seen such subtle, fervent love hidden in a drawing.

If sketching was a rigid language, the artist wielded it with near-divine skill.

Mu Xianqing glanced at the artist’s info.

“Jiang Ruotang?”

The name rang a bell.

“Ruò” as in “if,” “Táng” as in “crabapple.”

Wasn’t that Director Jiang’s son, the one grinding at art studio for the entrance exams?

Mu Xianqing recalled his painting of Bai Yingchuan, its emotions starkly different.

That one was cold rejection; this was tender, loving embrace.

Mu Xianqing chuckled softly for a while.

Whether gold would shine, he didn’t know.

But this felt like “fate bringing them together across a thousand miles.”

The sketch was a shoo-in for the exhibition, hung up for discussion and admiration.

Mu Xianqing watched from afar, sensing he was witnessing a supernova’s rise.

---

A month passed quickly, and the monthly exams arrived.

Exam rooms were assigned based on last semester’s finals. Jiang Ruotang checked his number—better than expected. He’d braced for the last room but landed in the third-to-last.

Lin Lu, ever steady, hovered between the last few seats in the first room or the top of the second.

His grades were Lin Chengdong’s pride. Though he hung with rich kids, studying never worried his father.

“Ruotang, you’ve been working hard. Your grades might soar—maybe even top 100!” Lin Lu said, eyes crinkling cutely.

Jiang Ruotang knew his limits. One month’s effort was lucky to keep him out of the last room.

Bai Yingchuan, a transfer with no prior ranking, was temporarily placed in the last exam room.

Jiang Ruotang glanced at Lu Guifan.

Monthly exams were a breeze for him. Barring accidents, he’d secure first place and the school’s special scholarship.

But Jiang Ruotang remembered this exam—Lin Lu accidentally broke Lu Guifan’s only pen.

In his past life, Jiang Ruotang gave him a spare, sparking Lu Guifan’s goodwill.

This time, he’d farm that favor even harder!

Early that morning, Jiang Ruotang packed a handful of pens in his bag, rehearsing in his bedroom mirror how to hand them to Lu Guifan.

He refused to believe Lin Lu could break a whole bunch of pens.

His enthusiasm was so intense that when he met Lu Guifan at the school gate, grabbed him, and thrust the pens forward, Lu Guifan stepped back half a pace.

It felt less like offering pens and more like presenting flowers—awkwardly theatrical.

“Hm?” Lu Guifan looked down at Jiang Ruotang, as if saying, What’s your deal?

“For you! First exam’s Chinese—lots of writing. Your pen’s almost dry. What if it dies mid-exam?”

Lu Guifan tapped the pens’ tips. “So many—drawing lots?”

“Huh?” Jiang Ruotang blinked, confused.

Why draw lots? They’re all for you.

“I’ll take this one. Looks like the winning pick.” Lu Guifan plucked a pink pen from the bunch and pocketed it.

Why pink out of all of them?

“Let’s go.”

Lu Guifan headed into the building, leaving Jiang Ruotang clutching the pens.

Zhao Changfeng passed by, chuckling. “Jiang Ruotang, you wholesaling pens in the exam room?”

“Bad students need lots of stationery. Mind your business!”

---

In the exam rooms, history repeated itself. Lin Lu passed Lu Guifan’s desk, knocking his pen to the floor and stepping on it.

Everyone knew Lu Guifan was the cool type—only a pen, a pencil for the answer sheet, and his exam slip.

His usual pen was broken. No big deal—someone could lend one—but shaking the top student’s focus was amusing to some.

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to! Here’s a pen!” Lin Lu apologized quickly.

“It’s fine,” Lu Guifan said calmly, pulling the pink pen from his uniform pocket, stunning everyone.

“No way, am I seeing things? Lu Guifan, the one-pen wonder, brought a backup?”

“A pink one? Did a girl give it to him?”

Even the proctor, handing out papers, double-glanced at the pink pen.

The morning Chinese exam went smoothly.

Jiang Ruotang thought that was it, but while eating takeout in the exam room, he overheard hallway chatter: Lu Guifan’s glasses broke.

His heart clenched. Those glasses were a thousand times more important to Lu Guifan than any pen!

Dropping his chopsticks, he rushed out and stopped two classmates.

“You said something about Lu Guifan’s glasses?”

“Yeah, he got bumped by Meng Yang and some guys in the hall. Glasses fell and broke.”

“Meng Yang…” Jiang Ruotang’s brow furrowed.

If memory served, Meng Yang was on the basketball team with Zhao Changfeng. They were buddies but later fell out, likely over Capital Sports University’s recruitment.

Meng Yang and Zhao Changfeng were in the last exam room, miles from the first. How could he bump into Lu Guifan?

Was it on purpose? Jiang Ruotang’s fists clenched, though he was no match for Meng Yang’s size.

Now wasn’t the time to dwell.

For most nearsighted students, missing glasses wouldn’t ruin an exam.

But Lu Guifan was different. His severe nearsightedness wasn’t genetic—it came from a childhood fever. His parents were working in the city, leaving him with his grandparents. A clinic visit didn’t help, and by the time he reached a city children’s hospital, the illness was cured, but his vision worsened.

Without glasses, the exam text would be too small and blurry, affecting his performance.

Jiang Ruotang lost his appetite and hurried to the grade office.