Lex led Professor Xu into the tea room, the familiar scent of dried leaves and lacquered wood settling between them. The space was quiet, intimate—the kind of room where words carried weight simply because they were spoken.
The professor moved unhurriedly, his gaze flicking across the arranged teaware before landing on the stack of paintings near the table. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, hands tucked neatly behind his back as he observed Lex's work.
Lex poured the tea with steady hands, letting the warmth seep through his fingers. The faint clink of porcelain against wood was the only sound between them.
Finally, the professor spoke. "You do not chase the stroke."
Lex glanced up.
Professor Xu's gaze was still on the painting of Mei blossoms. The careful interplay of ink and space. The balance of strength and quiet defiance.
Lex set the teapot down, his voice calm. "I try not to."
A quiet hum of approval. The professor moved to another piece, fingers tracing the air above the paper—never touching, but close enough to feel the intent behind each stroke.
"I had the honor of knowing Lei Yongzhi." The professor's voice was thoughtful, measured. "One of the most renowned literary scholars of the late Qing Dynasty. His calligraphy was unmatched—not because of technique alone, but because he understood that ink is not just movement, but memory."
Lex's fingers curled slightly around his teacup.
Lei Yongzhi.
His great-grandfather.
Lex remembered the name from books, from quiet conversations between scholars and family members. But more than that—
He remembered a kind old man who liked to play.
Soft laughter in a sunlit courtyard. Ink-stained hands as he showed Lex how to flick the brush just right. The way he made even the most serious scholars pause and smile, as if words were meant to be lived, not just studied.
He had died when Lex was five.
The memory was faint. But it was warm.
Professor Xu exhaled softly. "I met him many times in the late '90s. Even then, his presence commanded respect." A pause. "He would have liked this piece."
Lex tilted his head. "Would he?"
The professor gave him a quiet, knowing look. "He saw perfection not in rigid technique, but in spirit." He gestured lightly toward the inked branches. "And in this, I see perfection."
Lex let the words settle.
Then, calmly, the professor shifted.
"I want to exhibit your work."
Lex blinked.
Not because he was surprised, but because he wasn't sure how he felt about it.
The professor studied him. "Your discipline. Your restraint. Your understanding of negative space. You are already beyond talent, Ling Jun. Your pieces deserve to be seen."
Lex ran a thumb along the rim of his cup.
Seen.
Not as an investment. Not as a commodity.
But as art.
He glanced at the drying ink. The weight of memory still lingering on the page.
And for once—Lex didn't know his next move.
Lex set his teacup down, fingers resting against the lacquered wood. His gaze flicked toward the ink-dried petals on the canvas—the Mei blossoms, strong against winter's cold.
Exhibit.
It wasn't an offer. It was a declaration.
Professor Xu wasn't asking. He was stating a fact—that Lex's work belonged in the world.
Lex exhaled, measured. "I never intended to exhibit."
The professor studied him, then took a slow sip of tea. "And yet, your work speaks as if it has always been waiting."
Lex smirked faintly. "That poeticism comes free with the tea, I assume?"
Xu Jianhong chuckled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply recognize when an artist is lying to himself."
Lex tilted his head slightly. "You think I want this?"
The professor didn't answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the painting. "You are a businessman, yes? A strategist. A man who calculates risk." His fingers hovered above the ink, never touching. "Tell me, Ling Jun—what is the risk in this?"
Lex's smirk barely twitched. "Exposure."
Xu hummed. "And do you fear it?"
Lex didn't answer immediately. Instead, he picked up the teapot, refilling both their cups with steady precision.
Fear wasn't the word.
It wasn't that he didn't want people to see.
It was that they would recognize something in the work that he hadn't decided if he was ready to show.
Finance, strategy, power—he controlled the narrative in those spaces.
But this? This was raw.
Xu sipped his tea, watching him carefully. Then, softly—"Do not let the wrong lessons become your walls, Ling Jun."
Lex exhaled through his nose, setting the teapot down. "And what would you have me do?"
Professor Xu smiled, slow and knowing. "Let the ink find its own audience."
Lex tapped a single finger against the table, his mind already turning over possibilities, weighing variables, predicting outcomes.
Finally, after a long pause, he smirked. "You already have a place in mind, don't you?"
The professor's eyes gleamed. "Of course."
Professor Xu set his teacup down with the kind of deliberate grace that only came with age and certainty. His gaze, steady and patient, never left Lex's.
"The National Art Museum in Beijing."
Lex's fingers stilled against the porcelain.
Not a small gallery. Not a private collector's showcase a talent.
The National Art Museum.
One of the most prestigious institutions in China. A place where only the most revered traditional and contemporary artists were exhibited. A place that didn't just show art—it immortalized it.
Lex exhaled slowly, rolling the idea in his mind like a trader evaluating a high-stakes deal.
Xu Jianhong studied him, reading the hesitation beneath his quiet calculation.
"It is not a matter of whether you are ready, Ling Jun." His voice was soft but certain. "It is a matter of whether you will allow yourself to be seen."
Lex didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the teapot, pouring more tea, letting the suggestion settle between them like ink on untouched paper.
He had spent years mastering the art of invisibility.
Being known? That was a different game entirely.