Chapter 18 [Second Update]

Chapter 18 "The Second Watch"

Soon, a hot post titled "Shen Gali Hacked Accounts to Rig Votes" floated to the top of the forum's homepage. Although this forum is composed of top scorers from provincial college entrance exams, academic credentials and moral character sometimes do not go hand in hand.

Moreover, once it involves their principal, everyone gets jumpy.

[I checked, and my account had a login from a different location yesterday, so I was hacked too, right?]

[Me too. I'm so pitiful. I've been on this forum for three years, finally reached the highest forum level after three years TAT, and then someone changed my password on me. If you're going to hack my account, fine, but why change my password? (Angry)]

[As expected, Shen Gali never changes—even shattered into pieces, each shard holds a scheme.]

[Can the director of the promo video or a moderator get in touch with Shen Gali? We need an explanation for this.]

[Yes, this has to be reported to the principal. In a school as prestigious as ours, we absolutely cannot let one bad apple spoil the whole barrel.]

[Agreed! Anyone who maliciously hacks accounts to rig votes must be severely punished!]

Meanwhile, at the Seven-Colored Flower Art Education School.

Shen Gali sat among a group of children with an average age of under six, listening to the kids and teacher actively interact. His face was blank, and he answered "I don't know" to everything, taking forever to respond when his name was called.

Parents outside the door watched him, shaking their heads in pity: "Such a cute little face—too bad he has Down syndrome."

Shen Gali's mind wandered. He was tired, and his eyes were almost closed.

Wasn't it supposed to be one class a week? What's gotten into Nan Liujing? Suddenly he wanted him to come check in at the school every day and submit a piece of artwork at home.

Every minute and second in the classroom was pure agony. Finally, class ended. The teacher helped write the theme name in the bottom right corner of each child's work, and Shen Gali, holding his dark, messy piece, stood among a pair of kids for a photo.

Uncle Li squeezed in with the other parents, phone raised, snapping photos with a kind, fatherly smile.

He thought Shen Gali's painting was amazing—the round, chubby lines, the unconventional use of color, almost rivaling Caravaggio.

As soon as they got home, Uncle Li eagerly presented Shen Gali's masterpiece to Nan Liujing.

Nan Liujing looked at the dark, messy blob and frowned: "What is this?"

Uncle Li pointed to the title the teacher had written in the bottom right corner, grinning like a proud auntie: "Mr. Shen's class theme today was 'My Most Beloved Person.' The painting is a bit childish, but you can tell he put his heart into it."

Nan Liujing frowned, examined it repeatedly, and asked again: "Is that supposed to be a person?"

"Look how evenly he colored the black suit. And this gray blob—that's the wheelchair. It seems that in Mr. Shen's heart, you are his most beloved person."

Nan Liujing looked again. So this garbage-looking thing was supposed to be him?

But… my most beloved person?

His fingers, which had been gripping the paper tightly, slowly relaxed. He gently ran his fingertip over the small theme text again and again.

After a long moment, Nan Liujing set the work aside.

Can't trust it. This is Shen Gali—the same guy who tried to drug him to death on their wedding day. "Most beloved person" probably means "the person he most wants to kill."

"Uncle Li, help me get in touch with the Moroto Art Gallery and a custom invitation studio. Also, have Shen Gali's previous works sent for framing."

An hour earlier, in the classroom at the Seven-Colored Flower School.

Shen Gali slowly smeared paint on his paper, and one of the kids nearby couldn't help whispering: "This big brother draws so ugly. No wonder he has to learn painting with us little kids."

Little Rabbit Teacher overheard the child's innocent comment and feared it might hurt Shen Gali's "young" feelings, so she quickly interjected:

"Li Li, your coloring is really even. How about a sticker as a reward?"

She tore off a sticker shaped like a small lychee and was about to stick it on his forehead, but he quickly blocked her hand and stopped her.

The teacher smiled awkwardly and asked: "Is this your most beloved person? Can you tell the teacher who you drew?"

Without looking up, Shen Gali said: "It's my mom."

"It's your mom? What a filial kid! Can you tell the teacher what that black blob is?"

Shen Gali: "Dirt."

Teacher: ?

"And these gray parts? Are those your mom's clothes?"

Shen Gali: "A tombstone."

Little Rabbit Teacher was stunned for a long moment before realizing she'd stepped on a huge landmine! So his mother had already passed, and she still had to bring it up—how careless of her!

*

Almost at the same time, students from Shen Gali's own college, school leaders, all employees of Huanhai Electronics and the Shen Group, and various industry leaders, celebrities, internet influencers, and high-society elites received a strange invitation. When opened, it read:

"The 2023 Shen Gali Solo Art Exhibition will be held at the Moroto Art Gallery this Sunday. Everyone is welcome to attend and offer your insights."

Everyone: ???

Shen Gali's… art exhibition?

Wasn't he a computer science major...?

How amazing must his work be to show off at the Moroto Art Gallery? Remember, even the worst pieces exhibited there were from top art academy deans, and it was a regular venue for masters like Pissarro and Cézanne.

Indeed, the Huanhai conglomerate is filthy rich. They spared no expense to make their newly acquired little good-for-nothing smile.

So jealous.

Students at Jinhai University looked at each other's invitations, completely baffled.

An exhibition of Shen Gali's works... what's there to study about that loser's work? But the fine print said attendees would get a nice gift. A gift from a big conglomerate probably wouldn't be cheap. Maybe go get the gift and leave.

Almost everyone in Jinhai City knew about Shen Gali's "masterpiece" exhibition, except Shen Gali himself.

On the day of the exhibition, Shen Gali was sound asleep when a frantic knock came. Before he could respond, Uncle Li burst in, dragged him out of bed, and dragged him to the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed.

He washed his face, applied some lotion, and finally put him in a beige ruffled court-style shirt, khaki high-waisted straight-leg trousers, and topped it off with a brown beret, pulled askew. He looked like a little court painter from the 18th century, tall and slim, with a delicate face like a freshly peeled egg, young and lovely.

Shen Gali slowly formed a question…

What is this…?

"Mr. Shen, when you arrive, don't be nervous. Just say what you need to say and introduce things normally," Uncle Li said abruptly, carefully adjusting his bangs.

Without giving Shen Gali a chance to ask, Uncle Li went downstairs and called the driver. And so, Shen Gali, completely clueless, was dragged to the entrance of the Moroto Art Gallery.

The gallery entrance was lined with luxury cars. All kinds of people were gathered, and the area within a hundred miles was crowded to the brim.

Seeing so many people, Shen Gali's social anxiety kicked in, and his first instinct was to bolt. But the next second, the driver pulled him around to the back door of the gallery.

When he entered, it wasn't yet time for the exhibition to start. Shen Gali was seated in the backstage lounge, still completely baffled.

Before long, snippets of conversation came from the front hall, followed by orderly footsteps. Then, a staff member with a work badge called Shen Gali to the front hall.

In the vast exhibition hall, a few works were sparsely hung on the surrounding walls, all covered with red cloth, as if they were incredibly valuable.

On the large stage in the hall sat a very familiar man.

A glimpse of a snow-white shirt sleeve peeked out from the cuff of his ink-blue suit, revealing a wrist equally striking, connected to broad palms with long, well-defined fingers.

Looking further up, there was a face fully concealed by a mask and sunglasses, his jet-black silken hair impeccably styled, the ends neatly trimmed, cascading onto his pale neck.

Nan Liujing...

Wait, what was that banner on the art wall behind him?

"2023 Shen Gali Personal Art Achievement Exhibition"

Personal achievement exhibition...

Help...! Nan Liujing is setting me up!

Shen Gali remembered this from the original story.

In the original, to sell his crappy paintings, the original protagonist knelt before the villain for three whole days and nights, begging him to organize an exhibition. The villain reluctantly agreed, but the original protagonist's painting skills were so terrible—even if you sprinkled millet on paper and let chickens peck at it, the resulting lines would be better than his—that it naturally drew merciless mockery from all walks of life.

Not only did the protagonist lose face, but the villain who organized the exhibition also lost face. After the exhibition ended, the villain dragged the protagonist home, stripped him naked, and threw him into the freezing lake. When the protagonist struggled to surface, the villain ruthlessly pushed him back down, nearly killing him.

Although the protagonist's life was temporarily saved, it left him with a chronic condition—his knees ached unbearably whenever it was windy or rainy.

Shen Gali was at a loss for words.

Could the author use their little brain when writing? The villain hated the protagonist so much; why would he help him hold an art exhibition?

Forcing the plot to be satisfying, right?

Never mind whether it makes sense. Soon, when the red cloth is lifted...

Forget it, I'll just let fate take its course for others.

He had already forgotten what he painted, but judging by his level, it would probably fit right into the original story.

Can't we just fast-forward to the part where the villain throws him into the lake? He definitely wouldn't struggle.

On the stage, Nan Liujing pulled over the microphone and said calmly, "Welcome everyone to my wife's humble exhibition. She is still a beginner with immature technique. If you have any valuable opinions, we will humbly accept them. Thank you."

Thus, in the eyes of others, he, Nan Liujing, appeared as a devoted husband who doted on his wife. Unfortunately, his wife was not up to par. Spending so much money on classes was just a waste of time. With many witnesses, the excuse for divorce became perfectly reasonable.

Nan Liujing sneered, his gaze slowly drifting to Shen Gali on the side.

Shen Gali was completely frozen.

After the thanks, the visitors lined up in front of the paintings, waiting for the staff to unveil the masterpieces.

The conglomerate family wanted to cultivate artistic taste; the teacher they hired must be a top-tier master in the country. Even if they were just copying from someone, it shouldn't be too ugly.

The staff carefully lifted the red cloth, afraid to damage the work underneath.

Everyone curiously craned their necks, staring intently at the paintings beneath the cloth.

The next moment.

Everyone: ...

They must not understand art. Let's look again to be sure.

But even if they stared until their eyes pierced through the painting, they still couldn't see what was so good about these works!

Chaotic lines without any structure, color schemes completely lacking in harmony—it could easily pass for a kindergartener's messy scribbles!

Embarrassed expressions appeared on everyone's faces, but since the other party was the conglomerate's in-law, they had to hide it, nodding like connoisseurs:

"Very clever composition. They say a work can convey the artist's thoughts, expressing both reason and emotion. So, when Mr. Shen Gali created this piece, he wanted to express his grief over the hidden ugliness within prosperity."

In reality, they thought: Damn, this is painful to look at. For the free gift, I'll put up with it a little longer.

Several painters, who had repeatedly tried and failed to get their works accepted, couldn't sit still.

Is this the new trend in abstract art? What's it even abstracting? They couldn't tell.

But in front of the piece titled "My Most Loved One," stood a middle-aged man in his forties. He had black hair and sword-like eyebrows, a suit exuding a touch of scholarly elegance.

He looked up, quietly studying the painting, as if there was something deeply captivating about it. He stood there for one minute, ten minutes, half an hour—

Throughout, no matter how lively the discussions around him, his gaze never shifted for a second.