In the heart of jingluan, a quiet city veiled beneath mist and old dynasty stone, stood the National Art Museum an ancient building touched more by silence than time. Its high archways, lacquered pillars, and calligraphy
lined walls held the weight of forgotten dynasties and stories not spoken aloud.
That evening, the upper gallery was sealed for invitation only.
Outside, the streets of jingluan were cold and damp, fog curling beneath dim streetlamps. But within the museum's stone belly, the air was velvet-thick with anticipation. Chairs had been arranged in an oval, the guests seated in near silence, their watches gleaming under soft lights. Billionaires, old collectors, museum directors all waiting for the final piece.
Velvet ropes were drawn aside.
A stage of dark wood stretched beneath a curtain of red silk, drawn slowly by unseen hands.
The room did not breathe.
Behind the curtain hung the last painting of the evening. A single spotlight warmed its golden frame, catching on brush texture and decades of myth. No one had seen it in person for over forty years.
"Ashen Bloom."
The name stirred across the gallery like a whisper. Some leaned forward. Others sat back, stunned.
It was a flower but not one drawn for beauty.
Its petals curled inward, soft gray turning almost silver at the tips, as if burned into elegance. They bloomed not from soil but from a white, powdery ash, piled thick like the remains of something once holy. In the background, beneath brushstrokes so faint they almost disappeared, a ruin lingered perhaps a temple, perhaps a memory.
Light fell in soft streaks across the canvas, touching only what the artist had allowed it to touch.
And tied around the stem, barely visible even from the front row, was a single black ribbon known to scholars as the mourning thread, Lián Rou's quiet seal of grief. He never signed his name, only painted that ribbon when the loss was personal enough to speak through silence.
It was one of the most sacred works attributed to him.
The bidding began at six million yuan.
A hand rose. Then another. And another. Voices echoed numbers with rising sharpness.
"Seven."
"Eight point three."
"Nine point nine."
A pause.
Then from the third row, spoken in a low voice that carried farther than it should:
"Ten million. Final."
The gavel snapped. The room stilled again.
The man who stood was dressed in a black wool coat, clean-shaven, with hands bare and steady. He walked to the front, pausing before the frame as though standing at a grave. For a long moment, he didn't move. Just watched.
Then, with care, he reached forward and pressed his fingertips against the painted stem.
He stilled. Tilted his head.
Brows knit.
And then, calmly:
"Where is the ribbon?"
The room stirred.
The curator blinked. "Sir?"
The man didn't turn to her. His voice remained quiet but clear now, deliberate.
"In every true painting by Lián Rou, there is a black ribbon around the stem. Even in fading light, it should be there. This one… is missing it."
People began to shift in their seats, whisper.
He stepped closer.
"And the ash," he said, "is not ash at all. It's layered oil. Rou never painted grief thick. His ash faded, flaked. Like memory. Like time. This one is too perfect. Too clean."
He ran a thumb along the lower edge of the frame.
"No seal. Not even a trace of the Eastern Night Dynasty's mark. It's missing."
Silence collapsed over the room, dense and sharp.
"This isn't Ashen Bloom," he said at last, straightening. It's something else. A mirror. An imitation of grief by someone who never felt it.
The curator looked pale.
A man near the back exhaled something like a curse.
Cameras clicked. Someone in the corner stood up too fast.
The buyer didn't move. He looked one last time at the flower in the ash beautiful, precise, and dead.
"This painting is a lie."
The gallery was nearly empty now.
The velvet ropes had been taken down. The hush that had once felt reverent now lingered like shame.
Only two men remained near the back wall one in a pressed gray suit, the other younger, hands trembling as he removed the last clipboard from its hook.
The older man's voice was sharp enough to cut through the marble.
This is humiliating. Didn't you people check the painting before the auction? How the hell did a fake end up on the main stage?
Sir, we did, the younger man said quickly, sweat along his temples. It was the original when we signed for it. I swear. This isn't a mistake someone switched it. Or stole it.
"Then go find it," the older man snapped. I don't care what it takes. I want the real Ashen Bloom back before this goes public.
The young man didn't reply. He only nodded and walked off quickly through the service hall, up the narrow stairwell, and into the upper offices.
He shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned on the desk light.
The walls felt too close.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled quickly through recent contacts, and pressed the number.
The line rang once.
Twice.
A click.
And then, a voice sharp, low, and dry as winter steel.
Deniz.
The man exhaled, as if the name alone gave him room to breathe.
I need your help. It's serious. The painting Ashen Bloom it's gone. Someone swapped it out before the auction. We sold a forgery in front of a room full of elites. If anyone finds out
He stopped. Waited.
Then, Deniz's voice came again. Calm. Unshaken. Uninterested.
"I'll find its location."
A pause.
"Bringing it back... is your job."
The line went dead.
The message came in less than an hour after the call.
A single ping on his encrypted line.
Deniz: Location sent. Transfer the payment. My job is done.
He unlocked the file immediately a GPS pin with satellite coordinates, a short typed note, and one attached image taken from surveillance: a high-walled estate, gates carved with antique iron, no names, no security uniforms… just a silence that looked expensive.
His throat tightened.
He recognized the place.
Not officially. But unofficially through whispers, reputation, warnings passed over drinks no one finished.
This wasn't just anyone's estate.
It belonged to an enemy of his employer.dangerous and well guarded.
Deniz hadn't said a word about it. Just sent the location.
How the hell am I supposed to walk into that house?
He stared at the map again, dragging the pin back and forth on his screen like the answer might shift.
And then… his phone rang.
The boss.
He answered quickly.
The voice on the other side was hard and short.
"If the painting isn't back until tomorrow, you're dead."
Click.
The call ended.
He sat in his office, head in his hands. The walls felt like they were moving in.
No guards he could bribe.
No entry points.
No exit strategy.
Only one person might have a way in.
He picked up the phone and called again.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a voice sharp, low, unmistakably Deniz.
"I'm busy. Don't waste my time."
Please Deniz just hear me out. I'm not asking you to go back in. Just… help me get it out. You have contacts. You always have something
Silence.
He thought Deniz would hang up.
But instead, a sigh.
"Fine. I'll send you the internal employee report. The people who work on his mansion are listed in it."
"Wait what?"
"One of them can be pushed. Fear works faster than money."
"So you're saying?"
"Pick one. Scare them. Get the painting out. That's all I can give you."
Another pause.
"And next time don't call me unless you're prepared to pay double."
The line went dead again.