Chapter 40

Chapter 40: This Is an Expert (Part 1)

“Are you seriously telling me there’s nothing?”

Shen Tang didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

Qi Shan, who’d been stone-faced until now, finally broke into a laugh. He pointed at the stack of paintings in her arms and said with dry, cutting sarcasm, “Does Young Master Shen think these are done in two or three strokes? And the board hidden under the paper is a nasty endgame, too.”

In other words: she was giving him way too much credit.

How was he supposed to find the time to stay up all night churning out paintings, then still carve out hours to crack the hidden endgame embedded in them?

Shen Tang rubbed her nose, suddenly fascinated by the wall. It wasn’t her fault she was suspicious. Qi Shan had a long history of “prior offenses”—enough to leave anyone with lingering trauma. She shoved the topic aside with a stiff smile. “Yuan Liang, I’ll take the paintings to the bookshop and turn them in now?”

“Go. Go.”

Qi Shan waved her off like he was shooing away bad luck. But just as she turned, he called after her again, his tone turning careful. “Turn them in, then come straight back. Watch yourself on the road.”

He paused. “We still don’t know what the person behind this has to do with the Four Treasures Commandery Governor. Better to be cautious.”

No connection would be best. If there was a connection, then she needed to be even more careful.

Xiao City was deep water. One wrong step, and you’d sink without a sound.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Shen Tang looked like she’d been granted a full pardon. She bolted like the wind, gone in the blink of an eye. Qi Shan lowered his gaze for a moment and raised it again—only to catch the last flutter of her robe vanishing around the corner.

He could only shake his head with a bitter smile and turn back inside.

He didn’t go to bed. He went back to his desk.

A clean sheet of paper lay spread out before him. The last of his lightness drained away as he steadied his breath, focused, and gathered literary qi.

In an instant, his mind dropped into the endgame.

A strange realm where yin and yang twisted together. Below his feet, the battlefield still raged—cities cracked and burned, black and white armies grinding each other down in a deadlock.

Look closely, though, and the white side held a slight edge.

The moment Qi Shan appeared, the shadowy figure across the board lifted its head to meet his eyes.

Qi Shan sat with calm precision, tugging his robe into place.

In a flat voice, he said, “No one will interrupt us. Let’s continue.”

No answer came—only the flick of a fan and the drop of a piece. With that single move, the hard-won advantage the white side had clawed back was wiped away like it had never existed.

Qi Shan wasn’t hurried. He spoke a word-spirit, and pale pieces condensed beneath the vaulted sky. On the board, the white army shifted at his command.

While black and white tore at each other, Shen Tang rode Moto to the True Light Bookshop and shouted from far off.

“Shopkeeper! I’m here to deliver the goods!”

She swung down from Moto’s back and tossed the reins without looking.

Moto caught them cleanly—neck up, mouth open, rope between his teeth—then wandered to the open space in front of the shop to rest like he owned the place.

The shopkeeper had been dozing behind the counter, head propped on one hand. Shen Tang’s voice jolted him awake so hard he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Who—who’s there?”

He blinked at her, then stared. “Little lady? You finished already?”

Shen Tang’s smile turned faintly guilty. “Mm. Yeah…”

“Let me see how they turned out.” The shopkeeper reached for the stack, still clearly unconvinced.

One night. That was all she’d had. What kind of fine work could anyone produce that fast?

Besides, he knew the temperament of the male courtesan at the Moonlight Tower. Picky as hell. Sloppy work wouldn’t even make it to the table.

He unfolded the first painting slowly.

One look—and it hit him like a hook in the gut.

His gaze locked, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

A handsome youth, still carrying a trace of childishness, hid alone among flowers. The painter hadn’t bothered to fuss over his face. Instead, all the care, all the intent, had been poured into those full, perfectly shaped red lips.

It made you want to lean in—too close. Close enough to do something stupid.

The shopkeeper snapped back to himself, cheeks flushing. He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own reaction. “Little lady… your brushwork is incredible.”

He’d brokered this kind of work for years—high-priced commissions from pleasure houses, one after another. He’d seen every sort of painter: subtle, bold, elegant, crude. He’d seen every kind of “classic.”

Some went for restraint. Some went straight for raw heat. Either way, the artists always tried to cram in every trick they had—flowers, silk, skin, allure laid on thick.

Yet he’d never once lost his composure like this.

He opened the second painting with shaking impatience.

Same style. On the surface, it was quiet—almost reserved. But stare long enough and you could feel the desire under the calm, like something watching from behind a curtain. Like a seductress hidden in the ink, charming without turning vulgar.

The third painting had two figures.

One was still that youth. The other’s face was vague, but his body was solid—broad shoulders, thick arms. He leaned into the boy’s ear, murmuring something intimate, lips so close he was nearly taking the boy’s plump earlobe into his mouth.

The fourth was also two figures, but this time a man and a woman. The woman’s face was unclear too, but her back was slim and smooth, her figure neat and balanced. The youth smiled as he leaned in close, and the flirtation practically tore through the paper.

The shopkeeper swallowed hard, sweat breaking out along his hairline.

He couldn’t afford to act like this in front of Shen Tang, so he grabbed his tea and drank like he was dying of thirst, letting the cold liquid shove down the sudden heat in his chest.

What the hell was this?

He’d read every thunder-and-fire romance story under the sun. He’d seen more explicit art than he cared to admit. He’d thought he was immune.

But these few paintings—rushed out in a single night—had made a liar out of him.

When he finished the last one, he let out a long breath, defeated.

This was an expert. A real one.

The words burst out of him before he could stop them. “Little lady, have you ever thought about publishing a collection?”

It would sell like wildfire. Gone in minutes.

Once these hit the street, the top courtesans in every pleasure house would be tearing each other apart to book the artist. Money wouldn’t even matter.

Shen Tang shook her head. “Just this once.”

Yuan Liang was a young man full of fire. Drawing this kind of thing all day would ruin his health.

He already didn’t look especially healthy, either. Better to quit while he was ahead.

The shopkeeper sagged, disappointed, and started to speak—

Shen Tang cut him off. “Actually, I didn’t draw them all. Last night I only finished half before my brother caught me. He got mad and drew the rest for me.”

She shrugged, shamelessly calm. “He’s stubborn and old-fashioned. He won’t agree to make a living from this.”

Then she tipped her chin. “So, Shopkeeper—are you satisfied?”

“You didn’t draw them?”

Shen Tang nodded. “No. Does it matter?”

The shopkeeper thought about it, then waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. As long as the work satisfies the client.”

The client hadn’t asked for a specific artist by name. Results were what counted.

Still—a pity about the collection.

He stored the paintings like they were treasure, smiling wide. “I’ll be honest—I’ve seen countless paintings in my life, and these are the most stunning I’ve ever handled.”

He chuckled, half in awe, half in excitement. “If I reacted like this, then that male courtesan will be thrilled. These will raise his price again—no doubt about it.”

“Shopkeeper—when will you deliver them?”

“Why?” he asked, suspicion creeping in.

Shen Tang smiled like she was shy. “That male courtesan is… very handsome. Unforgettable. I was thinking…”

She lowered her head, putting on her best bashful act.

The shopkeeper understood immediately. He fumbled for words, trying to warn her gently. “Little lady… this… people in those places, no matter how pretty they are, you can’t fall for them. They’re…”

He swallowed the rest.

A decent person was one thing.

But a male courtesan who greeted customers night after night?

Unfortunately, this little lady wasn’t listening. Not at all.

Hopelessly face-obsessed.