Chapter 1

The sky was a flawless blue, without a single cloud.

Sunlight fell on the tall, upright camphor trees, scattering light and shadow.

The air conditioning in the office was running full blast. The secretary had refilled the tea several times, and it was already nearing five o’clock.

Hao Shuyou rose to his feet with a smile. “Let’s call it a day. Zhou Lang, care to join me for dinner?”

“Sure. Somewhere nearby.”

Zhou Lang stood and smoothed the faint creases from her shirt.

Her assistant, Le Cheng, picked up the briefcase and held the door open first.

She and Hao Shuyou had trained under the same master—Hao Shuyou was the eldest Senior Martial Brother among them. By the time she began studying painting under their teacher, however, Hao Shuyou was already teaching at Yongzhou University in the north, so the two rarely met, though they had always gotten along well. Not long ago, Hao Shuyou had been transferred to Ning University’s College of Art as Dean, and as it happened, she had just returned to the country as well, so they had arranged to meet today.

Hao Shuyou wore a navy shirt, lean and upright, and teased her with a smile. “I hear one of President Zhou’s paintings sold at auction for over a million. Any new work lately?”

Zhou Lang’s tone was languid. “Senior Martial Brother, quit making fun of me. That was ages ago. I haven’t had time lately—haven’t painted in forever. And don’t go tattling to Teacher, or the old lady will lecture me again about knowing nothing but business, reeking of money.”

Hao Shuyou shook his head, smiling. “That lecture is coming sooner or later, no escaping it. So—will you agree to come as a Visiting Professor and Honorary Vice Dean? When the scolding comes, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

New to his post, he was full of ideas: recruiting renowned painters from outside as visiting professors while reorganizing personnel within the college.

Zhou Lang laughed despite herself. “Fine, fine, fine. You’ve said it what, a dozen times now… It’s just a title in name anyway. Let me be clear—I’ll only teach for one semester, and I won’t touch any administrative work. And about that donation we discussed… the…”

Her words cut off abruptly, her smile freezing, her gaze landing on empty air.

Her forward step hung in midair, refusing to come down.

“Zhou Lang?”

Zhou Lang said nothing. She took two steps sideways and stopped beside the faculty display board, tilting her head back, enunciating each word: “Ji. Xiu. Nian?”

The person in the photo stood in the sunlight, luminous-eyed, her smile tender.

Hao Shuyou came up behind her. “What, you know her?”

Zhou Lang didn’t answer. Her voice was a little hoarse. “Professor?”

Hao Shuyou nodded. “Mm. Professor Ji was a visiting scholar abroad and came back a couple of years ago. You know each other?”

Zhou Lang’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressed tight, the line of her thin jaw taut.

The air itself seemed to thicken with an unnameable tension.

After a few seconds, she lowered her head, her tone flat. “We knew each other. Before.”

When she spoke again, her voice was normal, her emotions reined in well. “About that donation—since we’re donating, we might as well donate an entire building. Le Cheng, make a note of this and stay in contact with Dean Hao’s secretary.”

Her assistant Le Cheng’s eyes widened involuntarily. “…Understood. Noted.”

Hao Shuyou forgot to ask about her strange reaction just now, his attention wholly captured by this: “An entire building? Zhou Lang, we only ever discussed donating some equipment. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Zhou Lang arched a brow, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked on, drawing out her words. “Rich and willful. Got a problem with that?”

Hao Shuyou couldn’t help shaking his head and hurried after her. “Zhou Lang, this isn’t a small matter. Don’t act on a whim. I know you’ve made plenty of money abroad these years—even if Mingchuan’s property prices aren’t high, a whole building is no small sum…”

Zhou Lang laughed carelessly. “It’s not a whim. All those buildings on campus were donated by alumni. Improving the company’s public image, giving back to my alma mater—perfectly normal, isn’t it?”

By now they had gone downstairs. Hao Shuyou wanted to keep persuading her, but Zhou Lang stopped by the car. “All right, enough. Oh, and… Senior Martial Brother, I’ll skip dinner with you. Something just came up at the company—I’m heading back.”

Hao Shuyou sighed. “Fine. I just remembered I promised dinner to some students too. We’ll talk details next time.”

Zhou Lang gave a small “mm,” squeezed out a smile, and waved. “See you.”

Hao Shuyou murmured a few more words, nodded to Le Cheng, and only then turned back.

Zhou Lang’s smile faded. “Le Cheng, give me the keys. I’m not going to the company today. You go home too.”

Le Cheng didn’t ask why she had suddenly changed her plans again; he stepped forward and opened the car door for her. “President Zhou, about what you said just now—shall I draft a proposal for your review?”

“We’ll see.”

Le Cheng said nothing more.

He had assumed she had a plan all along; now it looked like a spur-of-the-moment decision—nothing like her usual way of doing things.

Zhou Lang nodded to him, rolled up the window, started the engine, and slammed the pedal to the floor.

The next instant, the black Bentley shot away from Ning University like an arrow loosed from the bowstring.

Zhou Lang had only recently returned to Mingchuan and had bought a villa in the south of the city, where she was staying for the time being.

Ning University sat in the north of the city—the two were at opposite corners, far apart, over an hour’s drive.

As luck would have it, she hit evening rush hour. Traffic was jammed solid, an endless dragon of cars inching along.

Zhou Lang stared straight ahead, brows knit, her gaze seemingly fixed on the car in front, yet seemingly resting on empty air, anchored nowhere.

It wasn’t until a blare of horns rose behind her that she gave her head a hard shake and gathered her scattered thoughts.

Sixteen years.

Enough time to turn green inexperience into maturity, the familiar into the strange, closeness into distance.

Judging from the photo alone, that person seemed to have changed—and yet not changed at all.

Still clear-eyed and gentle. Still untouchable.

As if in all these years… the only one who had drowned in it, loving and hating in equal measure, was her.

Zhou Lang rubbed the space between her brows, laughed at herself, and drove on.

By the time she got home it was dark. Her stomach was weak, so she simply boiled some noodles—and happened to run into the cleaning lady arriving for her shift. Zhou Lang stopped her. “Sister Song, bring my easel over for me, please. Thank you.”

“Of course. One moment.”

Sister Song fetched the easel, paper, and paintbrushes from the studio, brewed Zhou Lang a cup of pre-rain Longjing tea, and quietly withdrew.

Zhou Lang sat on the high stool, motionless for a while, staring at the blank white paper, her brows knitting and loosening, again and again.

In the end, finding she could not shake the feeling, she walked over and picked up a brush.

She usually painted in watercolors, but today she took up only a pencil. The tip moved swiftly across the paper, and before long a faint outline emerged—a woman’s profile.

A few more strokes, some shading, and the picture would take shape. But the next second, the tip snapped against the white paper, unable to bear the sudden force her hand applied, dragging a long black streak across the page.

The painting was ruined, just like that.

Zhou Lang pushed back the stool and stood, staring at the picture, eyes as if quenched in fire.

The broken pencil was still clutched tight in her palm.

The moment her pen had touched down, that gentle, smiling photo had surfaced in her mind again.

And so the pencil in her hand seemed to take on a will of its own, roaming wild across the paper, sketching that person’s profile stroke by stroke. The instant the draft took shape, she looked at what she had drawn, thought of that person, and her emotions surged.

The person who had appeared under her brush countless times seemed within arm’s reach—

yet when she reached out, all she grasped was emptiness.

Night wind slipped in through the window, stirring the paper.

She pressed her lips together, set down the brush, then picked up the sheet, folded it once, twice, and slowly tore it down the middle. A crisp ripping sound rang through the air, as if some switch had been tripped. Then her movements quickened—tear after tear, almost out of control—until the paper was shredded to pieces, a drift of white confetti covering the floor.

After a long while, she crouched down and slowly gathered the scraps into her palm.

But the paper had been torn too finely; stirred by the wind, the white flecks scattered across the floor.

Sister Song came out of the kitchen and saw the mess. “Miss Zhou, shall I clean this up?”

She was long used to this by now.

Zhou Lang only ever painted landscapes—but whenever she took up her brush to paint a portrait, she tore the finished sheet to shreds without fail.

Once or twice, Sister Song had glimpsed the subject. It seemed to be a woman.

Zhou Lang rose slowly, crumpled the scraps in her palm into a ball, and tossed them into the trash. “Mm. And put everything back, please.”

Her voice carried the calm of someone who had released a suppressed emotion and reclaimed her composure—cool and rational.

Zhou Lang walked out onto the balcony and made a call. “Yining, how is that matter I mentioned coming along?”

The line on the other end was noisy. “She hasn’t taken the bait yet—but soon. Ji Changhong is a cautious man. Tempted, yes, but still watching and waiting.”

“Mm. No rush. I have patience. It’s still early.”

The night was thick as ink, without a single star.

Zhou Lang lowered her voice, and the words dissolved into the evening wind.

Ji Xiunian had just finished class and was heading back to the college building from the teaching area.

The college’s newly appointed Honorary Vice Dean and Visiting Professor was receiving her appointment letter from Dean Hao Shuyou today, in the largest lecture hall of the College of Art.

She had barely stepped into the hall when someone waved at her. “Teacher Ji, over here.”

Ji Xiunian walked over and sat down. Fang Xun, who had been her teaching assistant for over half a year, handed her a bottle of water. “Teacher Ji, the walk over must have been hot. Have some water.”

Ji Xiunian accepted it with a smile. “Thank you. It is a bit warm.”

She wore a clean, fresh beige high-waisted dress, her expression mild. “It’s time. Why hasn’t it started?”

Fang Xun lowered her voice. “The VIP’s late, obviously. This Vice Dean Zhou seems to put on grand airs… Look, the college didn’t just summon the faculty—they called the students in too…”

Ji Xiunian didn’t press. She took out her work notebook and pen and bowed her head, mulling over the choreography of a dance.

They sat in the middle-back rows, blended in among the students, drawing no attention.

Soon there was a stir at the door—the Dean laughing, people rising to welcome someone. Ji Xiunian didn’t look up—her attitude one of rather obvious perfunctoriness.

Dean Hao Shuyou gave the opening remarks. Fang Xun sat primly, clapping along, and turning her head, saw Ji Xiunian deep in thought, pen in hand, distinctly unenthusiastic.

She was long used to it. She’d heard that Ji Xiunian had been passed over for leadership positions multiple times, but the woman seemed uninterested, rarely even attending administrative meetings.

Ji Xiunian scribbled in her notebook, absorbed, her long, sleek black hair draped over her shoulders. The silver tassel earrings at her ears caught the light now and then, glinting.

The woman on stage listened to Hao Shuyou’s pleasantries, but her gaze had already locked onto its target.

From the moment she entered, she had been searching for her.

At first she didn’t see her—until that person turned her head and smiled at someone beside her.

Yet that person never once glanced at the stage, the very picture of indifference.

Zhou Lang pressed her lips together, long thick lashes drifting down.

When Hao Shuyou finished, he smiled at her. “Now then, please welcome our college’s Honorary Vice Dean—and our newly appointed Visiting Professor—Zhou Lang, Professor Zhou!”

Thunderous applause. Everyone had long heard of the Honorary Vice Dean’s generous donation of a building.

Hao Shuyou introduced her: “Professor Zhou is a renowned young painter who has sponsored numerous artists in holding solo exhibitions. She is also the CEO of the well-known enterprise Leheng Group. I’ll hand the floor over to her.”

Zhou Lang nodded to him, took the microphone, and stood.

Every gaze on the floor swung toward her at once.

More than a few people froze for a few seconds. This Vice Dean Zhou, this President Zhou… bright, striking features, deep-set eyes, yet an air cool and untouched by dust.

Zhou Lang smiled faintly, her gaze sweeping across the crowd without lingering anywhere, until at last it came to rest—third row from the back, right side.

That person still had her head lowered, writing intently, as if oblivious to the world.

She spoke, her voice like pearls striking jade, clear and clean. “Hello, everyone. I’m Zhou Lang.”

The silver tassels at those ears swayed gently.

Zhou Lang kept her eyes on that direction. “Sixteen years. Returning to my alma mater, I’ve seen many old… friends.”

But that person never lifted her head to look at her.

Apart from the faint sway of the earrings at the very beginning, there was not a ripple.

The speech drew toward its close.

Ji Xiunian kept her head down the whole time.

She could feel it—a gaze, undisguised, resting squarely on her.

Piercing through the crowd, through the air, through… sixteen years of time.

She still held her pen, writing lightly on the paper, though even she didn’t know… what she was writing.

Until Fang Xun leaned over. “This Dean Zhou has such presence. Hey… Teacher Ji, what are you doing?”

Only then was that near-trancelike state broken.

Ji Xiunian came back to herself and saw the chaotic strokes on the page, pressed so hard they’d nearly torn through, scribbling out every choreography idea she’d planned, leaving only countless hastily scrawled characters.

Zhou. Lang.

She set down the pen. Her fingertips were trembling faintly.

Ji Xiunian slowly pressed a hand to her chest, brows drawing together.

Fang Xun asked with concern, “Are you feeling unwell? Break’s almost here—want to go back to your office for a bit?”

Ji Xiunian looked up at her, a tremor in her voice she couldn’t quite hide. “Intermission?”

Fang Xun nodded and checked her watch. “Three more minutes.”

Ji Xiunian said nothing, eyes fixed on the sweeping second hand.

But she never made it to intermission.

That burning gaze converged on her, and that cool, melodious voice drew steadily nearer: “A few days ago, I discussed the college’s future direction with Dean Hao. I’d very much like to hear the opinions of the other teachers and students here…”

The footsteps stopped beside her.

Over the sudden pounding of her heart, Ji Xiunian heard her say:

“Professor Ji—”

Zhou Lang paused, then smiled and extended the microphone toward her, her voice gentle yet carrying a strength that brooked no refusal. “Why don’t we ask Professor Ji to share her thoughts?”

The other teachers looked over, exchanging surprised glances.

Ji Xiunian had never liked administrative affairs, and never spoke at public events. At today’s assembly, the Dean had even had Fang Xun remind her repeatedly, for fear she wouldn’t come at all.

Some grumbled about it privately, but with her pleasant temperament, strong professional skills, and rumored powerful backing, the college leadership had always turned a blind eye.

Ji Xiunian had been writing with her head down the whole time, her notebook still open, her perfunctoriness plain for anyone to see.

Who could have imagined that on Dean Zhou’s very first day, she would come looking for trouble with her!

Under the weight of all those astonished, gleeful, worried gazes, Ji Xiunian pressed her lips tight, her fingers curling in and loosening again, and finally took the microphone. The moment she raised her eyes, she fell into those smiling eyes etched deep in her memory.

Only the smile didn’t reach them. Not a trace of the old affection remained—only a cold, heavy stare and indifferent mockery.

Like toying with her. More like punishing her.