Professor Xu set his teacup down with a quiet clink, his gaze steady. "The exhibition will be held at the National Art Museum's East Wing—reserved for modern calligraphy and contemporary ink work."
Lex listened, his expression unreadable.
"The theme," the professor continued, "is legacy. Ink that bridges generations. Your work belongs there, Ling Jun."
Lex exhaled slowly, but he didn't argue.
Professor Xu leaned slightly forward. "I will be selecting five pieces." His fingers tapped against the lacquered table. "The two remaining Wave Series paintings that mark transition—No. 5 and No. 17."
Lex's brow lifted slightly. Those weren't the most visually dramatic, but they were the most controlled.
The professor continued, "The Winter Plum."
Lex expected that one. It carried his grandmother's presence.
Then, after a short pause, Xu Jianhong added, "And the first."
Lex's fingers stilled. "The first?"
Professor Xu smiled faintly. "The dragon. From when you were three."
Lex blinked, then let out a short laugh. "You're serious?"
"Completely."
Lex shook his head, amusement flickering at the edges of his smirk. "It's a child's scribble."
Xu's gaze didn't waver. "It is proof that you have always been Ling Jun."
Lex didn't respond immediately, but his fingers tapped idly against the table.
It was a strange thing—to see his entire artistic journey reduced to five pieces.
And yet, somehow… it felt right.
Professor Xu sat back, folding his hands. "If you are fine with it, I will take them tonight. My people will contact your people tomorrow to finalize the details."
Lex huffed, shaking his head. "Efficient."
Xu smiled. "I prefer certainty."
Lex leaned back, smirking faintly. "Then take them."
Professor Xu nodded, satisfied—but instead of standing, he let his gaze drift across the room, lingering on the stacks of neatly stored scrolls and canvases.
"May I see more?"
Lex arched a brow. "You already have five pieces."
Xu Jianhong gave him a look—patient, expectant. "And yet, I suspect five is only the beginning."
Lex exhaled, but there was no real reluctance as he stood. He moved to the far shelves, where rows of cases and portfolios lay tucked away, untouched by auctioneers and investors.
Then, without hesitation, he pulled everything out.
Early experiments in calligraphy. Half-finished landscapes. Abstract studies of shadow and motion. Some pieces were precise, every stroke deliberate, while others were raw, untamed—the work of a restless mind trying to translate something that couldn't be spoken.
Lex unrolled another scroll, his movements fluid, practiced. Ink met paper in bold, sweeping strokes—some pieces controlled, others raw and unrefined.
Then he reached it.
The beginning of the Bamboo Series.
The first attempts were uneven, the lines still carrying the uncertainty of a younger hand. But even in those early strokes, the form was there—the balance of weight and movement, the silent strength in the way the stalks stretched upward, unyielding.
Professor Xu's fingers hovered just above the ink, his sharp gaze tracing the evolution from hesitant sketches to something undeniable.
Lex exhaled, shifting slightly. "I was five."
The memory surfaced as if it had been waiting.
His great-grandfather's study, the scent of ink and aged parchment thick in the air. He had been sitting on a cushion, brush clutched in his small hand, mimicking the strokes he had seen a hundred times before.
The first attempt had been shaky. The second, steadier. By the third, the strokes no longer wavered.
His great-grandfather, Lei Yongzhi, had watched in silence, his presence as still and heavy as the ink itself.
Then, after a long moment, he had finally spoken.
"This one has talent."
Lex could still hear his voice—calm, certain. Not exaggerated praise, not indulgent affection. Just truth.
At five years old, he hadn't fully understood what that meant.
Now?
Now, he did.
Professor Xu studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I will take these as well."
Lex blinked, startled from the memory. "The bamboo?"
Xu's lips curled slightly. "They were always meant to be seen."
Lex's fingers hovered over the scrolls, his mind pulling backward—not to his great-grandfather this time, but to Mei Lei.
His grandmother had always been quiet in her praise, never one for flattery. But there had been a box.
A simple wooden case, tucked away in her study, filled with his paintings.
Not the ones he thought were his best. Not the ones he had carefully selected.
But the ones she had chosen.
"These," she had said, carefully placing each piece inside, "are worthy of being given."
Not sold. Given.
He had been eight the first time she let him watch as she gifted one to an old colleague—a delicate ink wash of wisteria, handed over with quiet reverence.
"A true artist understands that his work is not only his own."
Lex exhaled, turning away from the scrolls on the table.
Without a word, he moved toward the farthest shelf in the room, fingers trailing across the wood until they found the old, familiar box.
It was still there.
Unopened for years.
He pulled it down, setting it on the lacquered table between them. The lid slid open with a soft creak, revealing layers of neatly stored scrolls, each one preserved with meticulous care.
Professor Xu leaned in slightly, his gaze flicking over the contents.
Lex traced the edge of the first piece—a small, controlled orchid, painted when he was nine. His grandmother had once said orchids revealed a painter's soul. He hadn't understood then.
Now, he did.
He swallowed once, then glanced at the professor. "Take what you think is worthy."
Professor Xu didn't move immediately. Instead, he studied the contents of the box—the careful arrangement, the scrolls stacked with quiet reverence, each one chosen not by Lex, but by Mei Lei.
Then, slowly, he reached inside.
His fingers brushed over the edges of each piece with the precision of a man who understood weight—not in pounds, but in meaning.
He picked many.
Not just one. Not just a few.
Many.
The first—the orchid. Small, delicate, painted when Lex was nine. A soul laid bare in ink.
Then—a plum blossom, from when he was eleven. Strong, unshaken, blooming against winter's silence.
A landscape, mountains towering over a still river. The kind of painting his grandmother had once traced with her fingers, murmuring about balance, about patience.
He kept going.
A lotus, an ink-wash pine, a hawk poised mid-flight.
One after another, scrolls disappeared into the growing selection, each piece a part of Lex that he had long set aside.
By the time Professor Xu was done, nearly half the box was empty.
Lex exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You don't hesitate."
The professor smiled faintly. "Neither do you."
Lex looked at the remaining scrolls—the ones untouched, the ones still tucked away.
And then, after a brief pause, he reached into the box himself.
He pulled out a single painting—a bamboo grove, painted when he was twelve, quiet but deliberate, the strokes already carrying the precision he would later refine.
For a moment, he simply held it.
Then, with steady hands, he placed it atop the professor's selection.
Professor Xu nodded once. "Good."
Lex sat back, rolling his shoulders. "You'll have enough to fill a whole wing at this rate."
The professor chuckled, gathering the scrolls with practiced ease. "Then perhaps that is exactly what I shall do."