At that moment, that bizarre desire to conquer surged within him once more. For a split second, Lin Congzhi even caught himself thinking, I really don’t believe I can’t coax you into bed, a thought that startled even himself.

The night breeze was still blowing. On the dock, a patroller holding a flashlight wandered about, humming a song. Out on the sea, it was pitch-black; a beam of light shone across, only to be swallowed by the boundless darkness.

The moon in the sky was just a thin sliver. After averting his eyes, Lin Congzhi refrained from looking back at Xiao Jingwen for a long time. It wasn’t until Xiao Jingwen spoke up: “Let’s go. I’ll drive you back.”

Lin Congzhi sometimes acted without considering the consequences. For instance, taking the last bus to the seaside today—if Xiao Jingwen hadn’t followed him, how was he supposed to get back? He hadn’t thought about it at all. He would either sit here foolishly all night to watch the sunrise and catch the first bus back, or find a inn.

Five years ago, when he decided to board that ship, it was the same way. He never thought about how long he would stay on the ship, nor did he consider where he was ultimately going.

“Your pot…”

“I’ll hold it.” Lin Congzhi closed the car door. “Don’t worry, the ash won’t spill out.”

“No.” Xiao Jingwen glanced at the pot in his hands. “Is this pot of yours a still life object?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I was just a bit curious; I thought it was an ashtray.”

Because when Lin Congzhi was smoking just now, he had flicked his ashes into it, and the cigarette butt was still sitting inside.

Back when Lin Congzhi was studying at the Academy of Fine Arts, he had all sorts of odd things. He had once cast a plaster skull mold to use as a toothbrush holder, with his and Xiao Jingwen’s toothbrushes sticking out of the two eye sockets. The upside was that every morning when Xiao Jingwen woke up to brush his teeth, it effectively jolted him wide awake.

So Xiao Jingwen wasn’t quite sure and wanted to ask anyway.

Lin Congzhi understood: “Oh, you’re afraid I just casually grabbed an ashtray to burn stuff for you…”

“No.” Just as Lin Congzhi finished speaking, he realized he had been dragged into a logic trap. “I wasn’t burning it for you.”

Xiao Jingwen started the car, checked the rearview mirror, changed lanes, made a turn, and drove in the direction of the gallery. There was a somewhat awkward situation: this Volkswagen was the one Xiao Jingwen often drove five years ago. As soon as Lin Congzhi sat inside, the car’s central console connected to his phone’s Bluetooth. So, for the entire drive, Lin Congzhi’s playlist was playing.

At first, Lin Congzhi didn’t notice, but the more he listened, the more eerie the familiarity became until he finally realized it.

He peeked at the central console screen, then peeked at Xiao Jingwen who was driving, before shrinking back into his seat while continuing to clutch his little pot. He had reason to suspect that Xiao Jingwen was premeditated today, but he was also very certain that if he and Xiao Jingwen were to start over, they would resume their endless arguments.

It was impossible for them to forever avoid work-related topics. For example, they would occasionally talk about what was currently popular in the auction market. Lin Congzhi’s view was that artworks were born without the need to be ‘liked’ by anyone. Xiao Jingwen would sarcastically quip, Didn’t you classical court painters from a few centuries ago also flatter the nobility?

In short, one would hurl a snide remark, the other would throw one right back, and two snide remarks plus two more would send their tempers flaring. Then, either Xiao Jingwen would gently wrap an arm around him and say, Baby, Brother Xiao was wrong, or Lin Congzhi would pull his hand over, rub it, and say, Alright, alright.

The 15-kilometer drive wasn’t far, but driving at night was relatively slow, so Xiao Jingwen drove for nearly forty minutes.

Lin Congzhi unbuckled his seatbelt, turned his head toward him, and gave a faint nod: “Thanks.”

Just as he was about to open the door to get out, Xiao Jingwen suddenly asked, “Can you give me this pot?”

“Huh?” Lin Congzhi thought he had misheard. “The pot? You want this pot?”

“Can I?” Xiao Jingwen looked at the pot, then looked at him. “After all, it was burned for me.”

“I told you it wasn’t…” Lin Congzhi felt helpless. “If you really want it, wait a moment. I’ll go inside and wash it clean.”

“No need to wash it,” Xiao Jingwen said. “I just want the ash inside.”

He was referring to the bio card that had been burned to ash. That was the thing about these business people—they were terrifyingly shrewd. He had managed to guess that Lin Congzhi had withheld the bio card, and further calculated that the reason he didn’t want to give it to him was that it was filled with words written about him.

Now, he didn’t even need the content—because the content was already crystal clear.

For content that Lin Congzhi would bring all the way to the seaside just to burn to ash, Xiao Jingwen was almost unable to suppress his smile.

Inside the car, Dirty Paws from Lin Congzhi’s playlist was still playing. The atmosphere was at an awkward point where if anyone burst out laughing, the whole scene would completely fall apart. Lin Congzhi could only grit his teeth: “At least let me throw this cigarette butt away.”

“Throw it here.” Xiao Jingwen flicked his right index finger beneath the central control console, flipping open the lid of the ashtray. He didn’t smoke, so the ashtray looked brand new.

So he was dead set on this.

In truth, if Lin Congzhi refused to give it to him, he simply wouldn’t give it to him. It was just that this man, Xiao Jingwen, still held a certain kind of magic over him, just like when he handed him that umbrella five years ago. He always, intentionally or unintentionally, asked him for inconsequential things. An umbrella, half a bottle of mineral water, and this small copper pot.

“I’ll put it on the floor for you.” Lin Congzhi placed the pot on the floor mat by his feet.

“Thank you,” Xiao Jingwen said.

Normally, that would have been the end of it—they could go their separate ways in peace, one stepping out of the car and the other driving off. Yet, Lin Congzhi had a sudden lapse of judgment. Before opening the car door, he inexplicably blurted out: “It can go in the oven.”

“…” Xiao Jingwen’s expression turned somewhat speechless.

Lin Congzhi smiled: “Just kidding. I’m leaving. Drive safely.”

“Okay,” Xiao Jingwen said.

After fully recovering from his cold, Lin Congzhi completed the custom oil painting requested by the client and had Zhang Miao pack it up and ship it out.

Next, Lin Congzhi had to go to his usual teaching job at the studio in the city. The studio in the city center of Yuchen was hosting this year’s intensive training for the art college entrance examination. The provincial standardized test was in December, and the individual fine arts academy exams were before the Spring Festival.

He didn’t own a car, and the time was exactly two in the afternoon. Zhang Miao drove him to the subway entrance, and he continued by subway into the city.

The studio in the city didn’t arrange a fixed class schedule for Lin Congzhi. All he had to do was come in at least once a week to complete a demonstration painting, with his pay calculated based on teaching hours.

Only on his way there today did he realize that the studio where he taught was just two streets away from the Gleam company building.

Unluckily, just as he arrived downstairs, the studio owner suddenly called him, saying that class was temporarily canceled for the day because a few repeating students had gone back to their high schools to handle some procedures.

Since he had already arrived, Lin Congzhi said he would head upstairs anyway to critique and touch up some paintings, without charging for the class hours. Hearing this, the owner thought Lin Congzhi assumed he was being stingy with the hourly pay, so he launched into another explanation, saying he hadn’t realized Lin Congzhi had already arrived and thought he hadn’t entered the city yet.

Lin Congzhi knew about the repeating students the owner mentioned. One of them was repeating for his fourth year, set on getting into the Central Academy of Fine Arts or nowhere else. Lin Congzhi had no objection to this; as long as a person had a goal, they should strive for it. If one year didn’t work, try for two—as long as one didn’t live this life in vain, it was fine.

The studio was located inside an office building. The owner rented two former large dance studios on the 12th floor to use as the painting studio.

The owner’s surname was Xin, named Xin Jue. Seeing Lin Congzhi come in, Xin Jue felt a bit embarrassed, realizing he had misunderstood. He scratched his head and said, “Oh my, isn’t that a coincidence? I just arrived ten minutes ago myself and only then heard that Yu Shijing and the others went back to school. I figured I’d hurry and tell you not to come over.”

“I misunderstood too, Teacher Xin.” Lin Congzhi smiled, putting his earphones back into his pocket. “By the way, let me take a look at Yu Shijing’s drawings from the past few days.”

“Sure, sure.” Xin Jue led him across the floor, stepping over pencil cases and sketchboards scattered by the students. Lin Congzhi even picked up a piece of charcoal along the way and placed it back into a student’s pencil case; these things were soft and would break into several pieces if dropped.

Yu Shijing was that fellow repeating for his fourth year. Xin Jue pulled out several of his color and charcoal sketches from last week and spread them out on the floor for Lin Congzhi to see. Lin Congzhi knitted his brows; whenever he scrutinized a painting, he would unconsciously purse his lips.

Lin Congzhi said, “What on earth is he painting?”

Xin Jue was worried too: “You know, Xiao Yu scored quite well on the Central Academy’s exam two years ago. That year, he only failed because of his academic subjects, so…”

“So he thinks he’s hot stuff, grew arrogant, ignores the studio teachers’ advice, and considers himself a natural genius who looks down on the exam formulas.” Lin Congzhi finished the thought in one breath.

Xin Jue remained still, his eyes darting to him as he said gloomily: “It’s tough for us too. I graduated from a fine arts academy myself, yet he looks down on me.”

Lin Congzhi sighed, reached out to pat Xin Jue on the shoulder, and continued: “I’ll come back tomorrow. I’ll talk to him face-to-face tomorrow.”

“I’m counting on you,” Xin Jue said.

In fact, Lin Congzhi could understand. When he took the art exam back in the day, he had also felt that the fine arts academy’s aesthetics were becoming increasingly formulaic—You’re an art academy; you shouldn’t restrict an apple to just being red, thoughts like that.

Back then, Lin Congzhi felt that art was art, and fine arts academies should discard templates and look only at talent. But after he entered the Oil Painting Department and began systematic learning, he realized the world was never the way he had imagined.

High-scoring color and charcoal drawings in fine arts academies were always built upon perfect form, perfect tonal relationships, perfect composition, and a deep understanding of the work.

Then Xin Jue packed up Yu Shijing’s drawings. Lin Congzhi wandered behind the students, looking at their work. He then patted one student on the shoulder, telling him to stand up, and sat down to fix the drawing for him.

Most of these art exam students liked to listen to music while painting, and sometimes when Lin Congzhi corrected their work, they would forget to take off their earphones. Every time Lin Congzhi spoke a sentence or two without receiving a reply, he knew they hadn’t removed their earphones and had the volume turned up extra high. He would then look up and point to his own ear to signal them.

Only then would the student realize, hurriedly pulling off their earphones.

Lin Congzhi felt helpless, but when he thought about how he had been the exact same way back in the day, he felt this was probably karmic retribution and he deserved it.

And so, he explained lighting relationships and the line of light and shadow to the student. He continued touching up paintings until near evening, when those repeating students returned, saying their school had prioritized processing the new semester’s procedures for art and sports students, so they came back early.

Just in time. Lin Congzhi called over Xiao Yu, the student repeating for his fourth year, and asked him what was going on with those paintings.

Yu Shijing seemed prepared, speaking with righteous indignation: “I was mimicking the wet, watery texture of British painter Peter Brown. The entire picture is humid.”

“Peter Brown’s colors aren’t suitable for the Central Academy’s exam. Besides, your…”

“I think the grading at the Central Academy should be all-encompassing.” Yu Shijing actually interrupted him, speaking solemnly and forcefully: “Grading should carry artistic merit, rather than being confined to…”

“Your basic form is completely warped, and you’re talking about artistic merit?!” Lin Congzhi raised his voice. Most of the kids in the studio were wearing noise-canceling headphones, and not a single one turned around.

“That’s the visual distortion effect caused by increased air humidity on forms in a damp mist!”

Lin Congzhi nearly choked with rage.

In the end, Xin Jue came out to smooth things over. First, he delivered a sharp slap to the back of Yu Shijing’s shoulders, making him yell “Ouch!”, and then he supported Lin Congzhi out into the hallway outside the studio. Xin Jue let out a long sigh: “Don’t lower yourself to a kid’s level, Teacher Lin.”

“I’m not lowering myself…” Lin Congzhi said. “His fundamental concept of fine art has strayed off course.”

To his surprise, that kid actually followed them out. In his fourth year of repeating, in his early twenties, young and aggressive, he knit his brows: “Teacher Lin, the way you put it—are you saying that if Grimshaw took the exam for the Central Academy, even he wouldn’t pass?”

For a split second, Lin Congzhi felt quite hopeless, because as he looked at this kid, he suddenly remembered the past: when he used to argue with Xiao Jingwen back then, hadn’t he been just like this?

Sarcastic, flustered, and holding a box of cigarettes in his hand. This kid had come out to smoke.

“…” At this moment, he only felt a headache coming on. “Xiao Yu, let me tell you this: the academy exam is a screening process. The exam doesn’t need a grand master; it needs students who abide by the basic laws of painting while possessing their own artistic reflections on the work. There’s a saying that all changes stem from the origin. What is the ‘origin’ of painting? Think about it carefully yourself.”

Right as he finished speaking, as luck would have it, Xiao Jingwen’s call came in.

To be frank, he really didn’t want to face Xiao Jingwen right now, even if it was just over the phone, but he answered anyway: “Hello?”

His phone number had never changed, especially since the delivery driver had read out the last four digits, 3331, last time, making Xiao Jingwen even more certain.

“Teacher Lin, we’re just missing yours for the artwork bios of the summer auction items,” Xiao Jingwen said. “Are you free today?”

“Oh…” Lin Congzhi had forgotten about this matter. “Yes. What time do you get off work? I’m right nearby.”

“It’s really a bit urgent; I might not be able to wait until off-work hours. Where are you? I’ll bring my laptop to find you, and you can write it on the spot.”

Lin Congzhi thought for a moment—there was a coffee shop downstairs. So, holding his phone, he turned around and pointed downstairs to Xin Jue, indicating that he would go downstairs for a bit. Xin Jue gave an “OK” gesture.

However, Yu Shijing wasn’t having it. Having had his drawings harshly criticized, he shouted at him: “Teacher Lin, finish what you were saying!!”

Over the phone, Xiao Jingwen asked: “Who is that… on your end?”

Lin Congzhi was feeling annoyed, his tone somewhat hurried: “Nobody.”

“Oh,” Xiao Jingwen said.