When Zhu Yun arrived at Tian Xiuzhu’s studio, the whole space was filled with the aroma of pan-seared foie gras. Tian Xiuzhu stood in an apron, eyes fixed intently on the frying pan.

Zhu Yun walked over and perched on a stool at the small counter. “Your apron pulls double duty?”

Tian Xiuzhu didn’t look away from the pan. “Waste not.”

He did look clean in everything, though.

Zhu Yun rested her chin in one hand. He had owned this apron for a long time — at least two years — and it had been through both paint and cooking. Yet it still looked nearly new.

The foie gras was at about seventy percent done when Zhu Yun suddenly asked: “Do you have a thing about cleanliness?”

The question hit at exactly the wrong moment. Tian Xiuzhu’s plating motion faltered, and oil slipped off the edge of the small spatula and dripped onto the apron. Then the foie gras lost its balance and fell, and in a reflex action, Tian Xiuzhu shot out a hand and caught it.

He looked at Zhu Yun, then pointed at the oil stain now on his apron. “If I had a thing about cleanliness, I’d be knocking you out with this pan right now.”

Zhu Yun eyed the foie gras in his hand. “I’ll eat that one.”

Tian Xiuzhu gave her a look of profound disdain. “You uncouth woman.” He tossed the piece straight into the bin and made a fresh one.

Tian Xiuzhu was an excellent cook — he put genuine thought and effort into it, and almost never touched junk food.

The two of them sat at the small dining table and ate. The meal showed that he had taken considerable care: every dish prepared with attention. Zhu Yun scanned the ingredients on the counter, took in the bottle of red wine Tian Xiuzhu had opened, and made a rough estimate — this table alone hadn’t come cheap.

“Why did you go to all this trouble?” she asked.

Tian Xiuzhu: “You’ve been working so hard. Thought I’d do something nice for you.”

Zhu Yun: “A simple meal would have been perfectly fine.”

Tian Xiuzhu smiled. “It’s nothing — I’m between projects right now, completely at loose ends.”

The moment Zhu Yun heard he had free time, she sat up straighter. The matter of the Unrivalled Warlords cover art had been weighing on her, and she had been half-hoping to ask Tian Xiuzhu for help — but she couldn’t quite figure out how to bring it up. She was still hesitating when Tian Xiuzhu, as though sensing something, looked up from his soup and caught her in the act.

“Spying on me?”

“……”

He studied her. “Something on your mind?”

She shook her head and asked, casually: “Any plans for your free time? Going back to France for a break?”

Tian Xiuzhu: “No.”

Zhu Yun sat up slightly — and was caught again by Tian Xiuzhu’s gaze. He set down his chopsticks and leaned back into his chair, smiling. “Ms. Zhu, have a look at yourself — your eyes are practically shining.” He picked up his napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “Out with it. What do you need?”

Zhu Yun scratched the side of her nose. She joked around with Tian Xiuzhu plenty, but she was clear on what he was — a genuine artist. Young as he was, he had already accomplished a great deal.

One of his paintings at auction could easily be worth more than the entire budget they had poured into the project.

After considerable hesitation, Zhu Yun gave him a brief account of where things stood. Tian Xiuzhu listened and said: “Sure, I can paint it.”

Zhu Yun looked at him. Tian Xiuzhu said: “I thought it was something serious. Send me the specifications for the cover art tomorrow.”

Zhu Yun: “Are you sure this won’t interfere with your actual work?”

Tian Xiuzhu: “A painting is a painting. It doesn’t matter what kind.”

Zhu Yun: “Will it take too much of your time?”

Tian Xiuzhu laughed. “It really is true what they say — one trade understands nothing of another. Do you remember last year when you helped me with that project — upgrading the browsing system for the city art museum?”

Zhu Yun: “I remember.”

That time, Tian Xiuzhu had been approached on behalf of the art museum’s director, who had once been his teacher. He couldn’t refuse the favour, but social situations weren’t his strength and he preferred not to deal with too many strangers, so he had ended up coming to Zhu Yun.

Zhu Yun was very familiar with the art museum, and with the painting inside it called Jagged Peaks — she agreed without a second’s hesitation.

Tian Xiuzhu recalled: “I thought it would take at least a few months. You handed it back to me in three days.”

Zhu Yun: “That wasn’t a difficult one.”

Tian Xiuzhu: “This isn’t either.”

He agreed to help. Zhu Yun relaxed — then thought of something else. “Oh, and — our company budget is a bit tight at the moment, so in terms of payment…”

Tian Xiuzhu looked startled.

“No payment?”

Zhu Yun’s face warmed slightly. She found the situation genuinely embarrassing and silently resolved to cover the cost herself.

“There will definitely be payment — how much do you think is fair?”

Tian Xiuzhu thought for a moment, then pressed something into Zhu Yun’s arms. She looked down — it was the apron, now bearing the oil stain from earlier. Tian Xiuzhu lifted his chin and issued his demand with no particular air of authority:

“That’ll do for payment. I want it as clean as before.” And then he added: “Hand-washed.”

Zhu Yun came into work the next morning visibly lighter.

Zhao Teng noticed and couldn’t help remarking: “You’ve recharged remarkably fast.”

In sharp contrast, Guo Shijie beside her had clearly not managed to rest, and was still adrift in his sea of exhaustion.

Zhu Yun went over and found him trying to start the promotional image from scratch. His hand, gripping the pen, was trembling so slightly that he didn’t even seem to know what he was drawing anymore.

Zhu Yun took the pen from him.

“You went home and kept drawing, didn’t you.”

Guo Shijie made a quiet sound of confirmation.

Zhu Yun: “When I tell you to rest, you rest.”

Guo Shijie: “But then we won’t have enough time…”

Zhu Yun: “It’s handled. I found someone to help.”

Guo Shijie looked up at her. “Who?”

Zhu Yun: “A friend.”

Guo Shijie seemed a little uncertain. “What’s their level like? Are they familiar with the project?”

Zhu Yun: “Don’t worry. I’ve given them the specifications. Once they have a draft ready, we’ll all look at it together and revise from there.”

Tian Xiuzhu’s draft arrived before the end of the workday.

The moment Zhu Yun opened the image, a wave of sensation washed over her entire body.

Tian Xiuzhu had made an unusual choice, composing the piece from a first-person perspective. The protagonist has just hauled himself out of a mountain of the dead, and through his eyes, the viewer takes in a vast, desolate ancient battlefield stretching endlessly before them.

Tian Xiuzhu was an artist deeply fascinated by human perception, and young as he was, he gravitated toward fresh and unconventional means of expression. The visual effect he had created was unlike an ordinary first-person or virtual-reality vantage point — he had employed a subtle technique that gave the viewer the uncanny sensation that their own eyes were lodged inside the painted figure’s skull.

Because the figure’s line of sight was tilted upward, Zhu Yun could even make out “her own” furrowed brow. The protagonist’s face was never shown, yet she could effortlessly feel the expression he was wearing.

After the workday ended, everyone gathered around the image.

“That’s something else,” Zhao Teng said, arms crossed. “This image is genuinely interesting.”

Zhang Fang’s blood was stirring too. “This is exactly what we needed — excellence demands exacting standards!” He gave Zhu Yun a clap on the shoulder. “Come on, hurry up and recruit this person! Little Guo, your title of Art Director might be slipping away from you.”

Even Guo Shijie stared at it in astonishment, then turned to Zhu Yun. “Recruit them… I’ll give up the Art Director position.”

Dong Siyang returned from his business dealings, took one look at the image, and made the call.

“Bring them in. Art Director.”

Zhu Yun: “……”

While the others were still talking it over, Zhu Yun turned and looked at Li Xun, who was standing furthest back.

“Does this work?”

Li Xun turned away and left. Zhao Teng watched, puzzled. “What’s wrong — did something upset him?”

Zhu Yun looked at his retreating figure. “…I’m not sure.”

The cover art problem was resolved, but the marketing budget was still only a few thousand. Zhu Yun went to Dong Siyang and made her case, arguing with everything she had. Dong Siyang sat in his leather executive chair, legs crossed, picking at his ear with one finger while half-listening.

When Zhu Yun had finally talked herself dry, he drawled: “What would a woman know about spending money.”

Zhu Yun nearly reached for the pen on the desk.

Dong Siyang said: “You stick to buying bags and cosmetics. Leave the rest to the grown-ups.” He tucked his briefcase under his arm and swept out of the room. Zhu Yun moved to follow, but Zhang Fang grabbed her and physically dragged her out of the office and into the stairwell.

Li Xun was there, smoking.

Zhang Fang: “Well, look at that — the freeloader is here too.”

Li Xun looked at the hand gripping Zhu Yun’s arm and said nothing.

Dong Siyang’s words had left Zhu Yun’s expression dark and cold.

Zhang Fang began dispensing his wisdom.

“Director Dong needs to save face in front of women — you’ve got to make allowances for him.”

“Make allowances for what, exactly.”

Zhang Fang rubbed his chest, sighed. “You two don’t know the full picture. I manage the company accounts — let me give you the truth. This company has been running at a loss since it was founded. Right now, there genuinely is no money left.”

Zhu Yun thought for a moment. “Then put my salary toward it as well.”

Li Xun exhaled a slow breath of smoke.

Zhang Fang laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Zhu Yun: “I’m serious.”

Zhang Fang dropped the smile. “So am I — and this isn’t a matter of passion or dedication. Director Dong won’t agree to it.”

Zhu Yun: “Why won’t he?”

Zhang Fang: “Don’t assume Director Dong is just a completely unreasonable boss — if he were, we’d all have left long ago. There was a time when the company hit a financial crisis and we proposed exactly this. Back then, Director Dong said that if the company ever needed to survive by cutting salaries, it was already most of the way dead.”

Zhu Yun looked at Zhang Fang with some skepticism. “Dong Siyang said that?”

Zhang Fang spread his hands: “I dressed it up a bit, but that was the gist.”

A quiet sound of amusement came from beside them.

Zhang Fang turned. “You have something to say, freeloader?”

Li Xun: “This Director Dong is not entirely without merit.”

“Of course he isn’t!” Zhang Fang said proudly. “Our Director Dong is exceptional!” He turned back to Zhu Yun. “Don’t worry — not much money, but I’ll make every cent count. I’ve got good connections with the people who do data boosting. We can get a discount rate. Once the game goes live, we push hard to get it to the top of the charts.”

Zhu Yun’s brow remained creased.

Data boosting…

Li Xun: “Unless you’re doing it in massive volume with other marketing strategies lined up to follow, boosting the numbers does nothing. We’re not inflating figures to show a client.”

As he spoke, he had the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and stepped over to where Zhu Yun stood. He pulled out his phone. “Do you recognize this person?”

His tone was somewhat cooler than usual. Zhu Yun looked at the screen in silence. The image showed a woman with a warm, approachable face.

Zhang Fang pushed in beside her, pointing at the screen. “I know her — that’s Zhao Guowei, she’s famous online! Does those history storytelling videos — super funny, massive following!”

Personal social media was still a new frontier, but its momentum was extraordinary. Hidden among ordinary people, all manner of talented individuals were emerging through the open platform of the internet to show what they could do.

“You’re thinking of using her for a promotion? No chance. Academics like her don’t take paid placements — money won’t move her,” Zhang Fang declared.

Li Xun asked once more, a quiet edge of impatience in his voice:

“Do you recognize her?”

Zhu Yun: “She’s a professor in the history department at my university.”

Zhang Fang: “What?”

Zhu Yun had met Zhao Guowei before — not by chance. She had sought her out deliberately, on more than one occasion.

Zhao Guowei was perpetually scatterbrained. She was forever leaving the house without her meal card or her keys, and whenever it happened she would call her husband to bring them over. Her husband was buried in his own research and could never get away himself, so he would ask his teaching assistant to run the errand…

Zhu Yun’s mouth opened slowly.

“Professor Lin…”