CHAPTER THREE
The International Arts University in Shanghai had never seen so much security in one morning.
Students whispered behind their sketchbooks as black SUVs rolled up the main boulevard. The glass doors of the Fine Arts Building swung open, and General Li Xuefang stepped through, flanked by her two aides — Colonel Mei Ling on her left, and Commander Shen Rui on her right.
Every head turned. Phones lifted discreetly. Some students stood to salute; others simply stared at the legendary woman whose face had dominated every broadcast for weeks.
In her dark military coat, Li was an image of discipline and silent power — no trace of softness, no hint of the romantic nostalgia that often colored her reputation in the media. Her hair was tied back in a precise knot, her eyes like sharpened steel.
"Ma'am," Mei Ling murmured as they walked, "the faculty has been informed of your arrival. Professor Jiang's class has just ended."
"Good," Li replied evenly.
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The office was minimalist — pale walls, easels, and the faint scent of turpentine. Paintings of abstract landscapes leaned against the corners, their colors strangely alive.
When Jiang Ren entered, his sleeves were rolled up, and faint streaks of blue and gold paint stained his hands. He froze for half a second at the sight of her, then composed himself.
"General Li, Li Xuefang," he said, voice measured but cool. "This is… unexpected."
Li studied him without emotion. The last time she had seen him, he had been a boy of seven, silent and distant at her grandfather's estate. Now he stood before her as a man — younger, sharper, yet carrying that same quiet defiance in his gaze.
"Professor Jiang," she greeted. "I believe we are still bound by an arrangement neither of us requested."
He gave a small, humorless laugh. "A contract written by men long dead. I assumed time would dissolve it."
"It hasn't," Li said simply, walking toward the window. "But I'm here to make sure it does."
That made him glance up sharply. "You're here to… end it?"
She turned, her eyes steady. "Yes. I don't have use for symbols of alliance that no longer serve purpose. You and I were children when it was decided — pawns for a handshake..."
"You speak of people as if they're weapons, General," he said quietly. "Forged or discarded when they're no longer useful."
Li's lips remained quiet, rather-patient.
He looked at her then — really looked. Even at thirty-three, there was something dangerously magnetic about her: the precision of her posture, the calm fire behind her eyes, the quiet authority that filled the room. Foxy, his mind muttered in irritation — though he hated himself for noticing.
"You haven't changed," he said finally, turning away. "Still made of steel and silence."
Silence lingered between them — taut, cold, yet electric.
Then she received a duty call. She straightened her coat and nodded once. "Thank you for your time, Professor Jiang. I have attracting matters to attend to."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and left the office, her aides falling into step beside her. The students outside parted like water as she passed, murmuring in awe.
Jiang watched from the window as the motorcade pulled away, the image of her still etched in his mind — the woman who had walked through fire and come out colder than ice.
"Fox in uniform," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
"Even when she cuts ties, she makes it feel like an order."
He turned back to his unfinished canvas, but his brush hovered in the air, unmoving.
For the first time in years, he realized he couldn't decide which color fit her best.
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