As Lee San and Kai stepped out of the tavern, the noise and tension behind them slowly faded. The owner accepted the payment with a stiff nod, clearly eager to see them gone after the earlier disturbance. Night had begun to settle, lanterns flickering to life along the street as cool air brushed past them.
Lee San walked a few steps ahead before speaking, his tone casual, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
"Kai," he said, "while we were inside, I overheard something interesting. It seems an old friend of mine is back in the city."
Kai looked at him. "An old friend?"
"Yes," Lee San replied with a faint smile. "He lives here. From what I heard, he's hosting a gathering tonight—one meant for young people."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "Young people?"
Lee San chuckled softly. "Young cultivators, to be precise. You know how it is. When one lives long enough, 'young' takes on a very different meaning."
Kai slowed his steps, thinking. Lee San continued, "It's already nightfall. It wouldn't be appropriate to visit your fiancée at this hour. How about we stay at my friend's place for the night? You could also meet people around your age."
Kai considered it for a moment. They could easily stay at an inn, but the thought of meeting Lee San's friend—and resting for the night before moving on—seemed reasonable.
"That works," Kai said. "You can catch up with your friend as well."
With their course decided, they turned toward the inner part of the city.
As they walked, voices drifted from a nearby street. Several people were discussing something with visible excitement.
"Mr. Luo's painting test is tonight, right?"
"I heard he brought out some rare pieces."
"He's always searching for talent…"
Lee San's steps paused for a brief moment. His eyes lit with recognition.
"So it's him," he murmured.
Kai glanced at him. "Your friend?"
"Yes. Luo Wen—though most people now call him Mr. Luo." Lee San smiled faintly. "Seems fate is saving us the trouble. Let's go."
They soon arrived at a spacious residence, lanterns glowing warmly at the entrance. Servants moved in and out with quiet efficiency, guiding arriving guests inside. The air itself felt refined, calm, yet filled with anticipation.
Not long after, Mr. Luo returned home, his presence immediately changing the atmosphere. He had organized this gathering not merely for leisure, but to give people a place to discuss painting, calligraphy, and the finer arts—and, perhaps more importantly, to discover hidden talent and build connections.
Tonight's theme was painting.
When Lee San entered the courtyard with Kai, Mr. Luo turned—and froze for a heartbeat.
"Lee San?" he said in surprise, then laughed heartily. "So it really is you!"
The two old friends clasped hands, exchanging a few words filled with familiarity and unspoken history. Afterward, Mr. Luo turned his attention to Kai.
"And this young man?"
"Kai," Lee San introduced. "My nephew—my elder brother's son."
Kai stepped forward respectfully and greeted him. Mr. Luo observed him for a moment, then nodded with interest, exchanging a few polite words.
As more guests arrived, Mr. Luo spoke again. "Lee San, since Kai is here, why not let him participate in the gathering? Many young people from sects, noble families, and even scholars will be present. It would be good experience for him."
Lee San glanced at Kai, then nodded. "That would be good."
Meanwhile, Rai and her group also left the tavern. They had arrived early in the city for the upcoming contest and had spent some time there to rest. With the incident behind them and the night deepening, they too headed toward Mr. Luo's residence—it was almost time for the gathering to begin.
Before long, the courtyard was filled.
Young masters from influential families, disciples of various sects, scholars dressed in simple robes—all gathered under the lantern light. Though most appeared youthful, an experienced eye could tell many had lived far longer than ordinary people.
Mr. Luo stepped forward, his voice calm yet carrying authority.
"Tonight," he announced, "we speak of painting.
Servants brought out several scrolls, arranging them carefully.
"Your task," Mr. Luo continued, "is to identify the real one—and explain how and why among the groups of paintings. Describe its features, its spirit."
As the paintings were revealed, the gathering grew silent.
The test had begun.
------------
Kai found himself drawn toward the paintings.
He did not rush. He observed quietly, moving among the crowd while Lee San took his place beside Mr. Luo at the high table.
Discussion erupted.
One painting after another was examined, debated, and discarded. Talents revealed themselves—some through sharp insight, others through confident explanation.
Several participants successfully identified the genuine works.
Yet two paintings remained.
No one could be certain.
Whispers grew louder. Doubt crept in.
Then—
A clear voice spoke.
"That one."
Attention turned.
A girl stepped forward from among the gathered group, pointing toward a scroll many had dismissed.
She explained calmly, pointing out brush flow, intent hidden beneath restraint, and the quiet harmony between ink and space.
Silence followed.
Then realization.
She was correct.
Praise surged instantly.
Young men stepped forward one after another, greeting the girl enthusiastically, their voices layered with admiration that spilled freely through the courtyard.
"That was impressive."
"To see such insight at this age…"
"She must be from a distinguished family."
Praise circled her without pause, some sincere, some clearly eager to flatter. The girl accepted it calmly, neither overly proud nor visibly flustered, responding with brief words and polite composure.
That girl—
Was Zhou Rai.
Only then did Kai notice her.
Not when the attention gathered.
Not when her answer silenced the room.
But when she stood there, surrounded by voices yet somehow separate from them.
His gaze lingered.
Not because of the praise—but because something about her presence felt… oddly familiar. A quiet pull he couldn't name, as if he had seen her somewhere long ago, in a memory softened by time.
Across the gathering, the boy stood slightly apart from the others.
He was tall for his age, his figure lean and well-balanced—not shaped by brute force, but by years of disciplined living. His posture was relaxed, yet precise, as though every movement was measured even when at ease. Jet-black hair fell straight down his back, gathered simply without ornament, unadorned and unassuming.
What drew attention, however, was not his appearance alone.
It was his stillness.
While others spoke eagerly, gestured, or leaned forward to be seen, he remained quiet. His expression was composed, unreadable, refined—sharp brows, calm eyes, and a face that revealed little of what passed within. As he observed the paintings, his gaze did not wander. It lingered, deep and steady, as if he were weighing something beyond ink and brushwork.
There was no arrogance in him.
No desire to stand out.
Yet standing there, he felt strangely… heavy.
Like still water—clear on the surface, concealing unseen depth beneath.
Rai felt it.
The moment his gaze rested on her, she sensed it—not as pressure, but as awareness. Her eyes lifted instinctively.
Their gazes met.
Across the space filled with voices and lantern light.
For just a breath—
The world around them faded.
She stood among warmth and sound, her presence vivid and alive. Slender and graceful, her movements carried a natural lightness, as though motion itself obeyed her. Long dark hair framed her face softly, catching the glow of lanterns whenever she turned. Her expressions shifted freely—curiosity, thought, emotion—each one clear upon her features.
Her eyes shone most of all.
Bright, lively, filled with feeling she did not bother to hide. When she had spoken earlier, her confidence flowed naturally—neither forced nor rehearsed.
She did not try to draw attention.
Yet attention found her regardless.
Where the boy felt distant and composed, she felt warm—like a living flame in a quiet room.
Stillness met motion.
Calm brushed against brightness.
Neither spoke.
Neither knew who the other truly was.
Not recognition.
Not familiarity.
Only contrast.
And yet—
For that fleeting moment, neither could quite look away.