Because Lin Congzhi was covering Xiao Jingwen’s mouth, he could feel Xiao Jingwen laughing against his palm.

He continued to warn him: “Don’t laugh. Hold it in.”

Xiao Jingwen nodded subtly, looking at his eyes with an earnest expression to show his obedience. Only then did Lin Congzhi lower his hand, not forgetting to glance discreetly to the left and right. Seeing that the museum visitors hadn’t cast any strange looks their way, he finally felt relieved.

Turning back to look at the painting, fairness demanded acknowledging that even as a replica, it was undeniably a exquisite piece of work. It could even be described as passing as genuine—though, to be fair, “passing as genuine” was its precise purpose here.

Lin Congzhi stood in front of it once more, examining it closely. The exhibition hall acted like a giant filter: the lighting, the decor, the infrared detectors, and the velvet caution ropes in front of the artwork all combined to create an atmosphere suggesting the protected subject was incomparably precious.

Humans are visual creatures, and the brain often sees only what it chooses to see.

The overall color tone of the painting was dark. The scales of a black python reflected the surrounding colors as it tightly coiled around a magnificent yet desolate crystal chandelier. It was easy to tell that the castle this chandelier once served had been utterly resplendent.

Now, the chandelier resembled an aging butler in the twilight of his years—the castle desolate and deserted, yet he still dressed himself impeccably. Even though his structure was rusted, covered in cobwebs, and teetering on the edge of collapse, he still radiated a faint, residual light.

If the picture were merely this, it would probably do little more than evoke a sigh over a ruined family line and a deserted home.

Yet a snake had arrived, wrapping itself around the chandelier in a death grip.

With the main subject set against a dark tone, the light source sat at the center of the canvas. Humans are phototactic creatures, drawn to light, so while helplessly staring at the dim lamp in the center of the canvas, one was forced to carefully inspect the black python coiled around it.

Its scales were so beautiful, so imbued with power—it was the only living thing in the entire picture.

Lin Congzhi stared unblinkingly.

He found himself sinking a little too deep into it.

Xiao Jingwen did not rush him. The people around them came and went, but Lin Congzhi stood there motionless as a statue. In Western oil paintings, the “snake” almost always denoted the devil; the serpent had tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden, and in classical works, the snake was trodden under the Virgin Mary’s feet.

Yet in this painting, as the snake coiled around the fragile chandelier, Lin Congzhi could not tell whether the serpent was seeing it off on its final journey or greedily seeking its lingering warmth.

It was common at art exhibitions for people to stand rooted before a single painting for a long time.

“Lin!”

Suddenly, someone beside him recognized him, followed by a few hearty laughs and a greeting in halting but understandable Chinese: “Oh my god! Long time no see!”

The newcomer was one of the art gallery’s owners. Lin Congzhi froze for a moment, searching his mind for how to address the man, when Xiao Jingwen beside him stepped forward to shake hands and greet him first: “Mr. Prost.”

“Just Dan.”

Dan Prost was a Frenchman who ran this gallery in Seville alongside a friend. He was the one who had invited Lin Congzhi over last year to paint a replica, and he was also the one who had emailed Xiao Jingwen last month requesting to display the piece using a high-precision digital reproduction.

After shaking hands with Xiao Jingwen, Dan reached out and pulled Lin Congzhi into a direct hug, saying, “The last time you came to Spain, you looked completely drained. You look so much better today! By the way, I’m flying back to Paris tomorrow morning—please tell your mother I said happy wedding!”

“Sure, definitely,” Lin Congzhi said with a smile.

In truth, Lin Congzhi could hardly be blamed for failing to recognize Dan immediately. A few years ago, this man had sported long curly hair tied up and wore two tassel earrings. Meeting him again today, Dan had short hair and a pair of low-key stud earrings, devoid of any of his past flamboyance.

Lin Congzhi looked at him for a moment and asked, “Did… something happen?”

Dan said nonchalantly, “Changed my look after the divorce.”

“You got divorced?” Lin Congzhi was surprised.

“What’s the big deal? Were you this surprised when the French Prime Minister got divorced?” Dan threw him a look.

“Well, definitely not…”

Dan didn’t feel like discussing his ex-husband, so he asked instead, “What about you? Any follow-up with that ex-boyfriend of yours?”

“…” Lin Congzhi looked at him, then looked at Xiao Jingwen.

As a fellow art worker, Dan possessed a keen instinct and instantly picked up on something: “Oh.”

He continued, “Okay, congratulations to… both of you.”

“Ah! Do you like this painting?” Dan focused his gaze on the artwork in front of Lin Congzhi. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it? Have you looked at the details in the background?”

Prompted by Dan, Lin Congzhi looked toward the painting’s background.

As a Paris native, Dan had clearly been drinking wine for breakfast, and at this moment, he was feeling a bit tipsy. He said, “Do you see it, Lin? Those dust-covered frescoes in the background.”

Lin Congzhi narrowed his eyes, studying the blurred background elements beneath the gallery spotlights.

After about a minute, Lin Congzhi recognized them: “It’s… the ‘Emperor’ and ‘Death’ tarot cards.”

Dan nodded. “Exactly. On the fresco are the Emperor and Death cards. Look, they’re both wearing armor, symbolizing authority and majesty. Now, Lin, close your eyes.”

Confused, Lin Congzhi looked at Dan: “Why?”

Dan said, “Close your eyes and recall what the ‘Death’ card in your memory looks like.”

Lin Congzhi closed his eyes as instructed and said, “Armor, a skeleton frame, holding a banner, riding a warhorse.”

“Is that all?” Dan asked.

“Pretty much?”

Throughout the exchange, Xiao Jingwen stood quietly beside them, looking at them and at the painting.

Dan glanced at Xiao Jingwen and smiled. Dan understood—a person like Xiao Jingwen, immersed in these artworks for years, was already half an expert himself.

“Alright, open your eyes,” Dan said. “Look at the frescoes in the painting.”

Lin Congzhi narrowed his eyes again, looking so intently that his lower abdomen bumped against the velvet caution line. Then, realization struck, and his eyes widened instantly—

“The hooves of ‘Death’s’ horse are stepping on the ‘Emperor’…”

Dan immediately cracked a thoroughly satisfied smile: “Right?!”

“Right, right?! So Lin, think about it—what does the death of an Emperor represent?” Dan continued to look at Lin Congzhi expectantly.

“It represents royal authority…” Lin Congzhi suddenly sensed something. “No, given the era this painting was created, royal authority wouldn’t simply vanish.”

Dan was delighted: “Exactly! Given the historical context of its creation, royal authority was eternal. So what does the death of an Emperor represent?”

Dan had taught students before, making him adept at guiding others toward the answer like this.

“Royal authority can only be transferred,” Lin Congzhi said.

“Transferred to…?”

“The Crown Prince.”

—This concept was universal across both East and West; both Eastern and Western histories experienced periods where imperial power was passed down through hereditary succession. On the day an emperor reached the end of his life, he handed royal authority to the heir.

Thus, in that era, people believed royal authority existed forever—it would never vanish, only shift hands.

The focal point of the oil painting The Crystal Chandelier Coiled by a Python matched its title. In the dim background of the canvas, within the fresco, the Death card trampled the Emperor, yet the Emperor card still sat erect right there.

Dan was highly satisfied with the answer he heard. By now, the alcohol was really getting to him, and he said, “Royal authority—what an intoxicating phrase. So tell me, Lin, if royal authority shifts, what else shifts along with it?”

After a long silence, Lin Congzhi answered: “Patriarchal authority.”

Dan quietly cheered a mental “Bingo!”

So what was this snake doing? Lin Congzhi re-examined the painting before him—the very painting about which Xiao Jingwen had told him upon entering, “The original is at my place.” Above that crystal chandelier, connecting the chandelier to the vaulted ceiling—the reason it was on the verge of falling was that the fixture suspending it resembled an inverted crown, leaving only a single metal rod in the center.

And every single ornament on the lamp, though looking like ordinary, small lampshades, was arranged in a “crown” formation—taller in the center, slightly lower on the sides.

This snake was committing regicide.

Or rather, committing patricide.

The snake, as a symbol of the devil, was committing acts forbidden by the laws and ethics of that era—regicide, patricide.

So this painting depicted an act of murder against the crystal chandelier.

“What a magnificent painting,” Dan murmured, staring raptly at the artwork. “How magical. It’s a murder scene, Lin! You know, years ago when you came here to paint, we were drinking and talking about your ex-boyfriend. Shortly after you left, I happened to buy this painting by chance. The more I looked at it, the more I felt—”

“You mentioned your ex-boyfriend’s family and his company—such a young guy ousted his own father using such decisive and ruthless business tactics. Talk about a coincidence! Later, this painting was actually bought by a CEO… Oh.”

Dan cut himself off, suddenly certain he had truly drunk too much this morning. He turned gracefully and performed an imaginary hat-tip toward Xiao Jingwen: “My apologies, I forgot you yourself are standing right here at this very moment… Hahaha… I told myself breakfast shouldn’t exceed 350 milliliters, hahaha…”

He was indeed smashed. Xiao Jingwen shook his head: “It’s fine.”

“Well,” Dan said in his French-accented voice, “Have a good day.”

Xiao Jingwen nodded with a polite smile.

Dan waved his hand and slipped away.

Lin Congzhi, however, remained rooted to the spot. This time, he was genuinely stunned.

In truth, he had never carefully considered how Xiao Jingwen had managed to take the seat of Executive Director at Gleam, because it had always seemed reasonable enough. He was Xiao Jingwen—a widely renowned capitalist, adept at dealing ruthless blows.

These were all the guts and traits required of a capitalist—or rather, anyone managing a top-tier Asian auction house.

He had continuously overlooked a massive, glaring problem right in front of him.

Indeed, the brain sees only what it chooses to see.

Had Xiao Jingwen always been this kind of person? Lin Congzhi stared at the snake in the painting. Was it really as simple as usurping Gleam from his father through a single transaction worth 400 million?

Not long after Xiao Jingwen completed that 400-million-dollar deal, they broke up, so Lin Congzhi never had the chance to understand the details. He was different from Xiao Jingwen; his world had always been overly idealized. He lived in his mother’s fairy tales, a little prince in a gingerbread house.

Lin Congzhi’s world contained no “patriarchal authority,” let alone oppression. At most, Lin Lingyu only required him to smooth out his bed covers.

A little prince and a crown prince. One was a fairy tale; the other was history.

Xiao Jingwen took a step closer, standing beside him, the distance between their shoulders no wider than a phone turned sideways.

“Don’t listen to Dan’s wild over-analysis,” Xiao Jingwen said. “It wasn’t anything that dramatic.”

“Then why did you buy this painting?” Lin Congzhi asked faintly, feeling a bit dazed. “It’s not a famous painting, nor does it have… the kind of value you usually care about.”

Xiao Jingwen smiled nonchalantly: “Because it looks cool. Look at how cool that black snake is painted.”

Through those words Dan had guided him to speak—”royal authority” and “patriarchal authority”—a clear picture was quietly taking shape in his mind. Was the Xiao Jingwen of five years ago truly the same as the one standing here now? How much could five years alter a person?

He was only twenty-eight back then. What had he done on his journey from Gleam’s “Crown Prince” to becoming its “King,” forcing the very man who had raised such a ruthless successor to abdicate and yield power? His father hadn’t even reached retirement age at that time.

So why had he done it?

Was it purely out of greed for the position of Gleam’s director?

The answer was actually screaming to be heard. Lin Congzhi merely lived in a fairy-tale environment; his intellect was that of a fully matured adult.

That painting being collected by Xiao Jingwen was the visual proof—he had bought it to commemorate his victory.

“I want to step outside for some fresh air,” Lin Congzhi said.

“Mm.”

The exhibition ticket allowed two entries into the hall.

Breathing in the fresh air outside, his heartbeat gradually leveled off. Lin Congzhi took a few deep breaths. Right outside the art gallery was a plaza, where a musician was playing an oud while a crowd gathered around, dancing.

During the time they were together, Xiao Jingwen rarely spoke about his family. Come to think of it, Lin Congzhi had no idea how his family viewed a gay heir.

Taking a step further, Xiao Jingwen was thirty-three this year, under no pressure to marry, obligated to attend no blind dates to save face for anyone, needing no excuses at all—just how much effort had he put in to achieve that level of freedom?

Some children were splashing fountain water at each other, screaming as they chased one another around. Pure souls could always face their true desires directly; children only wanted to play, and their chasing feet would instantly halt at the sight of an ice cream truck entering the plaza.

Xiao Jingwen had ultimately become a capitalist who viewed artworks as mere numerical amounts. Almost every day, he saw exhibition pieces and auction items filling entire warehouses; he commanded wealth beyond common imagination, yet he had asked him—Tell me, what is artwork?

He had walked all the way to this point, completing a positional “patricide” to become the new “King.”

It was all so he could be with him.

And this was the very realization Lin Congzhi was least willing to admit or accept.

Because he wanted to be with him permanently, he had turned into a frantic capitalist—so consumed by madness that he had even tried to use Lin Congzhi to “create a god.”

Five years ago, the frantic Crown Prince had been blinded by everything, ultimately sparing not even the little prince.

Everyone knew that a person had to become powerful enough—powerful to a certain threshold—to avoid being bound by anyone or anything.

Yet five years ago, Lin Congzhi did not understand, would not accept, and refused to compromise.

Five years later, standing under the brilliant sunshine of Seville, Lin Congzhi finally looked straight at the most fundamental issue that had caused their breakup.

It was that Xiao Jingwen still wanted to be with him. Over these five years, Xiao Jingwen had fallen into a state of obsession, transforming from a project manager who just “wanted to make some money” into a “capitalist who bends everything in the industry to his will.” Did he truly love money that much, or did he truly love Lin Congzhi that much?

To become an absolutely powerful person, a person capable of protecting the little prince—that was the sole pure existence within his world overflowing with fame, fortune, and money.

And to protect him, to be with him—being a Crown Prince was not enough. He had to become the King.

Lin Congzhi wanted to light a cigarette. Before he could pull out his lighter, the cigarette was snatched away by Xiao Jingwen: “No-smoking plaza.”

“Seriously? Living through these five years without smoking or drinking—how do you decompress?” Lin Congzhi couldn’t help laughing.

“Me?” Xiao Jingwen pinched the cigarette Lin Congzhi had bitten on and said, “By missing you.”