Chapter 35: Dimensional Strike

In the end, the panel of twenty judges selected another piece from Lenton.

“This sketch falls short—honestly, I can’t appreciate it. I don’t even know what style it’s supposed to be. I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’m giving it a D,” several foreign teachers commented in English, taking turns with the microphone.

However, a few judges of Chinese descent awarded it a B, a relatively high rating.

Just as it seemed this batch of paintings was about to be finalized, Zhong Huayan’s voice rang out, firm yet unhurried, her Mandarin graceful and poised.

She believed that nearly everyone present could understand Chinese.

“This sketch adopts a woodcut print style, but if it were strictly traditional, it would lack substance. The artist has instead incorporated elements of the etching technique, using predominantly black lines to carve out this group portrait. While it may seem unimpressive from a distance, if you step closer, you’ll notice every figure’s expression is vividly alive—you can almost discern their personalities. For a sketch that so masterfully captures the spirit and character, a D rating would be unjust.

In terms of spatial design, fluid lines, and the subtle conveyance of mood, I believe this piece deserves at least a B. Moreover, the artist has innovated upon traditional technique—this work is worthy of an A.”

The crowd stirred in surprise.

The foreign professors had clearly understood her; they immediately approached the painting for a closer look.

True enough, as she described, this was no formless mass of black—its brilliance was hidden within the interplay of black and white lines.

“How did you know, from so far away, that this painting warranted such scrutiny?”

“In our region, sketching is very popular. I’ve seen works in this style before, so I could recognize it. What’s more, this piece shows remarkable innovation—it’s truly intriguing.”

The professors circled the piece for quite some time, discussing it at length.

Ultimately, they amended their records and rated the work an A. Still, it did not advance; had the top piece of this round been even slightly inferior, it might have.

The advancing painting was in the classic John McCarthy style, its unique composition creating an extraordinary sense of depth in the light, executed with great skill—especially in the interplay of light and animals.

Now, when everyone looked at her, there was a new measure of respect, for she seemed so young yet spoke with such assured confidence before the crowd.

Her reasoning withstood scrutiny; she clearly possessed a deep understanding of art.

When the seventh batch of paintings was unveiled, the judges were visibly startled and crowded forward for a closer look at one piece.

From afar, its spatial perspective was already striking.

The painting was entitled “Thunderclap.”

What was remarkable was that not a single bolt of lightning was depicted—there wasn’t even any rain.

Rendered in a palette of grays and whites, it showed a boat drifting on a broad river, with towering pine trees shrouded in mist on the opposite shore.

And yet, it conjured a palpable sense of an impending storm.

The composition was grand in the extreme—by omitting the riverbank and the land beneath the trees, the artist rendered a slender skiff with a single stroke, as if it might be swallowed by the vast river and looming pines, submerged under the oppressive mist. The dense, towering pines evoked a sudden, suffocating fear.

Above the pines, a layer of white mist separated the treetops, while the uppermost space was filled with a blend of gray and blue-black, hinting at endless mountains beyond. This oppressive shading, the unfathomable depths of the river, the frail figure on the boat—all drawn with a few seemingly casual strokes—contained the very soul of the piece.

“There’s no rain, no lightning, yet the painting captures heat, chill, fear, suffocation, even the grandeur of nature and the insignificance of life.”

“This is truly extraordinary. One could not reach this level of artistry without at least twenty years of dedication and innate talent.”

The judges were effusive in their praise—until they saw the real name beneath the artwork.

[Li Yanyan]

Several judges found the name familiar and, glancing over, realized it was the very young woman who had just spoken.

Her seat had a nameplate, thanks to Fu Yanyan, who always traveled with one. As his companion, her place was marked as well.

Suddenly, they recalled that the previous night, Professor Qin had brought her to critique some works, where she’d debated passionately with the group.

Nonetheless, this painting so outclassed the others that it simply had to advance.

“‘Thunderclap,’ by Li Yanyan, advances!”

A few brief words, yet she was overjoyed—happier even than she’d been upon acquiring a company or making a successful investment.

Seeing the upward curve of her lips, Fu Yanyan’s austere expression softened into a faint smile as well.

Xu Yaochuan, upon hearing her name, glanced her way and muttered, “A university student, and quite impressive.”

The director beside him, on the other hand, was full of praise. “Even a layperson can see how remarkable this painting is—the grandeur is unmistakable. Among everything we’ve seen today, this is top notch! And look how young she is—she must be a genius.”

The more Xu Yuan listened, the more irked she became. She simply couldn’t fathom how everyone now considered Li Yanyan a prodigy.

“Hmph, what’s so great about it?” she muttered in discontent, casting a deliberately disdainful glance at the striking figure in red across the room.

“Miss Xu, that’s Fu Yanyan from the capital—people call him the ‘Buddha’s Son.’ Isn’t he usually secluded in temples? I’ve heard he’s almost never seen in public, always so mysterious in the circles of the capital.”

The actress had clearly spotted the aloof, unapproachable figure in the distance.

Indeed, with such exceptional looks and bearing, it was almost impossible not to notice him.

Xu Yuan shot her a glance, her tone as haughty as ever.

“So that’s Fu Yanyan. What, are you, a washed-up actress, thinking of seducing a man like that? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Stop daydreaming.”

“Why not? The woman beside him doesn’t seem to be of any particularly high status—not like you, Miss Xu, a true lady of a great family.”

This flattered Xu Yuan, who responded with mock sympathy, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Her? That’s Li Yanyan. She’s not from the capital—she’s an outsider. If she didn’t resemble the daughter of the former richest man, Fu Yanyan wouldn’t have fallen under her spell!”

Xu Yaochuan wore a lazy, unrestrained smile as he retorted sharply, “Sister, is your brain made of mush, or are you just shameless? Fu Yanyan doesn’t even see you as a contender; he treads all over you, and yet you come all this way for him, spouting bitter words? Honestly, how could you be a Xu? There’s hardly anyone as pathetic as you in our family.”

Though the barb was aimed at Xu Yuan, the actress suddenly fell silent as well.

She’d gotten carried away discussing another man, forgetting her own benefactor was seated behind her.

Xu Yuan’s cold lingered on, and faced with such a rebuke, she could only keep quiet.

She knew better than to cross her brother or father.

But she didn’t see herself as pathetic.

It was clearly Li Yanyan who bewitched everyone. If Fu Yanyan truly meant to target her, falling into a pond this morning would only be the beginning.

In her heart, Xu Yuan clung to the notion that Fu Yanyan had merely found a stand-in.

After all, back when Zhong Huayan’s fire broke out, everyone believed it was started by her relatives from the Zhong family; the Xu family was never suspected.

Zhong Huayan was dead, and Li Yanyan was nothing more than an impostor. So what if she could paint or dance? She was just a fleeting diversion.

Fu Yanyan’s true preference was for the former billionaire’s daughter—a woman who could stand on her own, make a business thrive, and form powerful alliances in the corporate world.

As the legitimate daughter of the Xu family, she was surely more suitable, and far more resourceful, than Li Yanyan could ever be.