Qing Yun didn't expect her name to be on the invitation.
When Master Shen passed it across the table, she blinked at the line in black print: Lin Qing Yun, apprentice of Shen Huai Zhen.
"Me?" she asked softly.
Shen Huai Zhen chuckled, pouring tea into her cup. "You think the world of art only belongs to dusty studios? Come. A cultural gala is still culture, no matter how much perfume they spray over it."
She hesitated, fingers smoothing the heavy paper. Galas, crowds, flashing cameras—none of it belonged to her world. But if Master Shen said she should go, she would.
"I'll be there," she murmured.
---
The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, polished marble shining like water. Officials in tailored suits mingled with foreign guests; photographers lined the walls, their flashes popping like fireflies.
Ze Yan walked at Qing Yun's side, dressed in a simple black suit without a tie, as always. He didn't bother hiding that he was there for her.
"Stay close," he murmured as they entered.
"I have Master Shen," Qing Yun replied, a small smile on her lips.
"And you have me," he said firmly.
She laughed under her breath, the sound soft against the grandeur around them.
---
Master Shen's display was modest: restored calligraphy scrolls, a porcelain vase, a few delicate inkstones. Yet the crowd that gathered around was genuine, not out of spectacle but admiration.
Qing Yun assisted, arranging scrolls, explaining details when people asked.
"This was from the Ming dynasty," she said to one curious guest. "The ink faded unevenly, but we preserved its strength with natural adhesive. What you see now is still its original hand."
Her voice was calm, steady. Guests nodded, impressed by her composure. A whispered comment drifted behind her: "So that's Shen's apprentice. Graceful, isn't she?"
Qing Yun bowed slightly, neither basking in praise nor shrinking from it.
---
The music shifted. A stir rippled through the room.
Jiang Yi Rong had arrived.
Her gown was a deep, commanding red, cut with elegance that revealed nothing careless. Her hair swept back in glossy waves, lips painted the same shade as her dress. She didn't need to raise her voice—her entrance alone pulled eyes toward her.
Reporters swarmed instantly. "Miss Jiang, over here!" Cameras flashed. She smiled graciously, every gesture practiced, every glance calibrated.
"Late again," someone muttered. "Always knows how to make them wait."
Yi Rong glided through the room, nodding at greetings, until her gaze landed on Ze Yan.
"Ze Yan." Her voice carried just enough to be overheard. "We keep running into each other lately."
He looked at her briefly, eyes unreadable. "Only because you keep walking into my path."
A ripple of quiet amusement stirred among the guests.
Yi Rong's smile didn't falter.
---
Her eyes shifted—landing on Qing Yun.
For one moment, silence pressed in, though the ballroom still hummed with chatter. Yi Rong walked toward the display table, her heels striking deliberate rhythm against the marble floor.
"Master Shen," she said smoothly, inclining her head. "Always an honor."
Shen Huai Zhen returned the nod, eyes twinkling. "Miss Jiang."
Then she turned her full attention to Qing Yun.
"So," she said, voice lilting, "this is the apprentice."
Qing Yun bowed politely. "Yes."
Yi Rong's smile curved, too sharp for warmth. "How refreshing. Simplicity always has its charm. Ze Yan, I didn't know your tastes had changed so much."
Her words were honeyed poison. Several guests shifted, pretending not to notice.
Qing Yun straightened slowly. "I'm honored to learn under Master Shen," she said evenly.
"Honored," Yi Rong repeated, tasting the word. "Mm. Some people are always borrowing honor, hoping it hides what they lack."
A few bystanders exchanged glances. The edge was obvious, though spoken with perfect poise.
Qing Yun's expression didn't waver. Her gaze was calm, almost serene.
"If one truly lacks," she said softly, "no amount of borrowed honor can cover it. Don't you agree?"
Yi Rong blinked, just once, before her smile returned.
---
The crowd shifted again, drawing attention away for a moment. Yi Rong leaned closer, her perfume sharp and cold.
"Do you really think," she whispered, "that you can stand where I once stood? Beside him?"
Qing Yun held her gaze. No anger. No fear. Only quiet conviction.
"I don't stand anywhere I don't belong," she said.
Yi Rong's smile froze—barely a crack, but enough.
---
Across the room, Ze Yan's eyes narrowed. He hadn't heard the words, but he saw the look in Yi Rong's eyes, the curve of her lips, the stillness of Qing Yun's face.
Later, when they stepped aside, he asked quietly: "What did she say to you?"
"Nothing worth repeating," Qing Yun answered.
He searched her face, jaw tight. But when she gave nothing more, he let it rest, though the coldness in his gaze toward Yi Rong deepened.
---
By the end of the night, cameras were already waiting outside.
As Qing Yun stepped toward the car, Ze Yan offered his hand, his gaze steady on her as though no one else existed.
The cameras clicked in a frenzy.
In the background of one shot, Jiang Yi Rong stood at the entrance, perfectly poised, eyes narrowed with the faintest of smiles.
She hadn't come to admire old art.
She had arranged this night for one purpose—
to begin her game.
And Lin Qing Yun had just stepped onto her board.