Jiang Ruotang stayed silent. He could usually read people’s minds—but not Mu Xianqing’s.

Mu Xianqing’s father still had ties with Lin Chengdong. Mu Family’s ‘De Yi Tianxia Cinema’ was a powerhouse in the distribution industry; any film Lin Chengdong produced would first seek out Mu’s favor. On the surface at least, their families were allies.

So Jiang Ruotang wasn’t letting down his guard just because the man before him was a famous collector.

“What I want to see are your original works. You understand what ‘original’ means, don’t you?”

Mu Xianqing’s eyes darkened slightly.

Jiang Ruotang gave him a bright, eight-tooth smile and tilted his head. “Then… want to see something interesting?”

Mu Xianqing chuckled and loosened his collar. “You should’ve shown me something interesting from the start.”

Jiang Ruotang stood on tiptoe to grab a sketchbook from the shelf and handed it over.

Mu Xianqing sat down, feeling as if he’d finally reached his goal. But when he opened the book, he almost choked—his back pressed against the chair, scalp tingling.

Inside was a clawing, snarling demon, as if trying to drag Mu Xianqing’s soul into the paper’s hell.

“What… is this?”

“A nightmare. Haven’t you ever had one?” Jiang Ruotang replied innocently.

Mu Xianqing had meant to dismiss it, but the more he flipped, the more fascinated he became.

They were twisted, horrifying—but disturbingly real, like buried, primal desires.

Jiang Ruotang had only wanted to mess with Mu Xianqing but was surprised when the man grew more serious, making Jiang Ruotang realize he may have misjudged him.

Mu Xianqing said nothing as he turned to the final page.

“What exactly are these?” His gaze was sharp and probing.

“Nightmares,” Jiang Ruotang replied.

“Not just nightmares. Fear, struggle, loneliness, dread… all here. These aren’t feelings someone your age should have.”

For the first time, Jiang Ruotang believed Mu Xianqing had come solely for the art.

After thinking for a moment, Jiang Ruotang slowly spoke.

“I had a terrible dream once. In it, I lost my father, was diagnosed with cancer, spent all our money, and dragged everyone down with me. Day after day of chemo, the smell of disinfectant in the hospital air… none of it brought salvation. Only the feeling of falling deeper and deeper, every breath and heartbeat marking death’s approach.”

Mu Xianqing’s fingers twitched. He could tell the boy wasn’t lying—nothing else could explain the raw terror in these drawings.

“And now? Do you still dream like that?” Mu Xianqing asked softly.

“No. I’m fine now.”

Mu Xianqing smiled gently, like a clear moonlit breeze. “Then why not show me something that says you’re ‘fine’?”

Jiang Ruotang stood, pulling out a few oil paintings from the lower rack.

Mu Xianqing stood and received them carefully, as if they were treasures.

Despite his reputation with women, his love for art was genuine.

The first painting made his heart skip.

A sunflower—tall, full, in a clear glass vase, basking in bright sunlight… but its head drooped, and the outer petals were darkening, almost decaying.

The light was so brilliant, so beautiful… yet felt like an unbearable weight.

Mu Xianqing stared for a long time, knowing he wanted this piece for his gallery—but he couldn’t show it, lest he scare Jiang Ruotang.

He could already imagine the lavish praise he’d heap on this for collectors and critics alike.

The second was a plump little sparrow pecking in the grass—fluffy and round, a painting that lightened the heart and made you want to reach out and touch it.

Mu Xianqing was certain: Jiang Ruotang was a master of emotional expression. His works naturally stirred feelings—something that couldn’t be taught, only gifted.

But the third oil painting froze him.

Countless shattered, scattered colors filled the canvas, reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Starry Night, or Monet’s Water Lilies—a riot of beauty and brilliance.

At the center, however, was a blurred, solitary shadow—the faint outline of a young man.

It gave a strange feeling—one of envy. This shadow, though lonely, seemed embraced by overwhelming love, as if the whole universe’s warmth existed just for him.

Mu Xianqing looked up. Jiang Ruotang stood quietly, a calm expression on his face.

Mu Xianqing was sure: this boy was a genius.

“Ruotang, would you like me to represent your work?”

“Huh? Represent… what?”

Mu Xianqing lifted a hand. “You, as a new artist. Me, as your agent. Is that so hard to understand?”

Jiang Ruotang’s eyes widened. What the hell? Mu Xianqing wanted to sign him?

Of course, he wasn’t vain enough to think Mu Xianqing wanted to ‘collect’ him personally—but still—was he really that good?

His studio teacher Liang, and now this future tycoon of the art world… both saying he was talented?

A joy a hundred, a thousand times stronger surged into his heart. Perhaps it was because he had lived two lifetimes that his state of mind had changed, so what he painted now was also different.

“If I leave everything to you, does that mean I’ll have to listen to you?”

Mu Xianqing chuckled softly. “You’ll have to listen to me when it comes to promoting your works.”

“Meaning I’ll have to cooperate with you to boost the value of my work and hype up all sorts of stories?” Jiang Ruotang asked again.

Mu Xianqing lowered his eyes, feeling an urge to press his fingers against his brow.

This was the troublesome thing about young artists—he couldn’t tell if they were lofty or just simple-minded.

“To weave all kinds of sentimental and entangling stories for my paintings… or are you going to use your connections to get collectors and connoisseurs everywhere to create a buzz for me?”

Mu Xianqing found Jiang Ruotang’s imagination rather amusing—after all, this was indeed his usual method of operation.

He also understood that Jiang Ruotang had grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, so he didn’t have that strong desire to make money from his own work.

But Jiang Ruotang’s next words made Mu Xianqing freeze.

“Of course you can do that. Because even if countless connoisseurs all sing the same praises for a painting, they can never truly change how each viewer feels.”

At that moment, Mu Xianqing saw a kind of clarity in Jiang Ruotang’s eyes.

“But if you really like my works, I still can’t hand over everything to you. Because some pieces are my own secret garden,” Jiang Ruotang tapped his temple, “a permanent collection here.”

Mu Xianqing paused for two seconds. “So… you agree?”

Jiang Ruotang bent down and picked up the third painting. “Mm. These two you can take home and enjoy slowly.”

Mu Xianqing straightened up, suddenly anxious. “What about that one?”

“I told you, this is my permanent collection.”

Looking into Jiang Ruotang’s pure, bright eyes, he immediately understood. “You like him—this is the person you like.”

Jiang Ruotang didn’t deny it. He merely placed a finger to his lips. “Brother Mu, I thought that seeing through things without saying them was the mark of an adult’s refinement.”

But Mu Xianqing was the type who, once he wanted something, found it hard to let go.

“Name your price for the third painting.”

With his back turned to him, Jiang Ruotang carefully put the painting away and replied calmly, “I won’t sell it.”

“Everything has a price,” Mu Xianqing said to his back.

“Adults always think teenage love is just playing house, that once you grow up it’ll change. But for us at that age, the world felt vast, and the one we liked was the most important of all. We simply couldn’t go against our hearts. And if we compromised, then even when we really did change as adults, we’d feel regret for who we are at this moment. So since I can already see the outcome—why make my future self sad?”

Mu Xianqing wanted to say Jiang Ruotang was childish—but he also found him pure.

If such purity really had to be broken, then it should be time, not him—a man who loved art—that did it.

“How about this—you lend this painting to me for an exhibition. We can sign a contract and list it as not for sale. The style of this piece is one my mother would love. I want to put it in her gallery and display it for a year. Since you’re not that concerned about money, we can negotiate other terms instead.”

It was true—if it was just money, Jiang Ruotang felt it meant little. After all, how much could an unknown painting sell for?

But if he could make a friend this way, that wouldn’t be bad.

Handing this painting to Mu Xianqing—he would surely treasure and protect it. Jiang Ruotang wasn’t sure if he was a fine steed waiting for a good judge, but Mu Xianqing was definitely a powerful talent scout.

“Alright then. Remember, you owe me a favor. As for what that favor will be, I haven’t decided yet.”

Mu Xianqing let out a long breath, suddenly realizing that he had been led by the nose the whole time.

This kid… was actually pretty interesting.

“Tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyer send over the contract. Your ‘beloved’ is priceless, but surely the sunflower and the little sparrow can be priced?”

Jiang Ruotang smiled lightly. “You can represent the sunflower and the little sparrow, but selling them must have my approval. Do you still want them under those conditions?”

“Yes. Of course I do.” Mu Xianqing stood up, looking around Jiang Ruotang’s studio once more, as if searching for any other works worth taking.

Unfortunately, the studio was clearly just newly set up—still rather empty.

Mu Xianqing wanted to pick up something extra, but Jiang Ruotang wouldn’t give an inch.

Somehow… Mu Xianqing liked this. Chatting with Jiang Ruotang was much more interesting than socializing with that kid named Lin Lu.

As he was leaving, Mu Xianqing said to Jiang Ruotang, “Give your beloved a good name.”

He turned and walked into the night, driving away with an unusually good mood.

He felt the future would be much more fun—being able to witness a new star rising.

Oh, he hadn’t told Jiang Ruotang—his mother’s gallery was on the other side of the ocean.

“But I suppose Jiang Ruotang won’t mind.”

After sending off Mu Xianqing, Jiang Ruotang returned to his studio.

He looked at the painting that Mu Xianqing had been reluctant to leave behind, feeling a little melancholy.

In his previous life, Jiang Ruotang never even dreamed that he would catch the eye of a heavyweight in the art world.

But more importantly… what should he name this painting?

Jiang Ruotang felt a strong desire—he wanted Lu Guifan to see this painting.

Art was Jiang Ruotang’s own language. He didn’t know if, in front of Lu Guifan, he was like a whale on a different frequency, forever circling an isolated island in the sea.

He wanted to know if there was any resonance between him and Lu Guifan.

Jiang Ruotang turned on the lights in the studio, took a photo of the painting, and opened Lu Guifan’s profile to send that old, clichéd message: [Are you there?]

Lu Guifan replied instantly: [Here. Are you planning to use up the fifty cents worth of attention I keep here for you?]

Jiang Ruotang saw this and chuckled.

If anyone ever said Lu Guifan wasn’t funny again, he’d argue with them.

He briefly explained to Lu Guifan that Mr. Mu wanted to take his painting to exhibit at a gallery, then said: [Mr. Mu suggested I give the painting a name. But I can’t think of anything. Why don’t you help me?]

Deep down, Lu Guifan felt genuinely happy for Jiang Ruotang, but he knew he didn’t have much of an artistic eye.

The next moment, however, Jiang Ruotang sent over the photo of the painting.

Even though the phone screen was small, the bright colors instantly filled his entire vision.

It felt as if a lonely star, drifting alone in the dark universe for millennia, suddenly met a lively, radiant little asteroid—its immense gravitational force dragging it closer, crushing the asteroid… until it finally shattered into countless scattered stardust.

[Class rep, what do you think? What’s your first impression when you see this painting?]

Lu Guifan took a deep breath and replied: [Roche limit.]

The minimum distance at which two celestial bodies can remain separate without being torn apart by tidal forces.

Maybe… like you and me. The closer you get, the more you’ll discover how rigid, boring, and unchanging I am.

Lu Guifan habitually thought: maybe one day, when my top-student aura no longer fascinates Jiang Ruotang, he’ll turn elsewhere.

Like the childhood friends who used to play with him, or the deskmates who always asked him how to solve problems in middle school—they’d all drifted away.

Jiang Ruotang… most likely would, too.

He wasn’t a massive celestial body in the universe, lacking the gravity to forcibly keep Jiang Ruotang near. He’d meet more interesting, more capable, more admirable people in the future.

“What am I even thinking?” Lu Guifan pressed the corner of his eye.

He was a typical science guy, while Jiang Ruotang was an art student. Their ways of thinking—even their views on life—were completely different.

After graduation, they’d walk different paths. It was only natural.

His phone buzzed—it was a message from Jiang Ruotang.

[Roche limit—shattering completely, only to pursue eternal companionship. Class rep, you’re amazing.]

Lu Guifan’s pupils trembled slightly. He thought Jiang Ruotang would look it up online and realize the Roche limit was actually a law of destruction.

But why… did it become eternal companionship in Jiang Ruotang’s hands?