Queenie had little interest in paintings or calligraphy, so she left the gallery early, her footsteps echoing faintly behind her.
Meanwhile, Alice was practically glowing as she made her way to Mr. Johnson's residence. Her anticipation was palpable. Mr. Johnson had recently acquired an authentic painting by the Master of the Clouds—a name that carried weight in the art world. This particular piece was to be unveiled that very evening.
"Is the Master of the Clouds really that amazing?" John asked, his curiosity piqued.
Alice's eyes lit up. "Of course he is! He's a true genius. His paintings use just a few brushstrokes to express layers of meaning. You don't just see his art—you feel it."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And no one knows who he really is! They say no one has ever seen his face. He's like a ghost—here one moment, gone the next."
Alice could hardly stop herself from gushing, her tone reverent and dreamy.
He was, without exaggeration, her idol.
John, however, felt a strange unease prickling in his chest. He frowned slightly and muttered under his breath, "Well, I'd like to see just how impressive he really is."
Alice caught the edge in his voice and tilted her head. "John… are you jealous?"
John turned his face away, sulking. "No."
She chuckled and nudged him playfully. "Oh, don't be silly. I admire his art, not the man. He's probably some reclusive old grandpa in his eighties who smells like ink and incense."
John's expression softened, but something inside him still twisted.
Because the truth was, his feelings for his sisters had never been simple. He cared for them deeply—too deeply. But what kind of love was it?
If it was ordinary sibling affection, why did it sting so much to hear Alice praise another man?
But if it wasn't that… what did it mean for his relationships with all seven sisters? Was he supposed to marry them all?
The very idea seemed preposterous.
Yet it lingered.
Before he could untangle the knot in his heart, they arrived at Mr. Johnson's estate—an elegant manor surrounded by sculpted hedges and wrought iron lanterns flickering in the dusk.
A sharply dressed butler greeted them at the grand entrance. "Miss Moon, the master asked me to await your arrival. This way, please."
"Thank you," Alice replied with poise, her heels clicking softly as she stepped forward.
They followed the butler to an attic-like gallery specially constructed to house Mr. Johnson's private collection of rare books and priceless artwork.
The room was already bustling with well-dressed guests murmuring amongst themselves, a soft hum of anticipation filling the air.
"Ah! Miss Moon, welcome!" a cheerful voice rang out. It belonged to Philip Johnson himself—an elderly gentleman with a flowing white beard and bright, intelligent eyes.
Alice smiled warmly. "Mr. Johnson, this is my younger brother, John Lopez."
Philip extended his hand with genuine delight. "Mr. Lopez, welcome. A pleasure."
John gave a polite nod and shook his hand firmly.
Philip turned to Alice, his voice conspiratorial. "I know how much you admire the Master of the Clouds. I've saved the unveiling just for your arrival."
Alice blushed, humbled. "That's very kind of you, sir. I'm truly honored."
Philip gestured for them to follow him into the adjoining exhibition chamber.
But as they stepped inside, several guests cast sidelong glances their way, their expressions tight with disapproval.
A tall man with slicked-back hair sneered openly. "So this is who we were waiting for? Miss Moon from the Night Rose? What a joke. This is supposed to be a gathering of cultured minds, not some cabaret sideshow."
He emphasized swaying your butt with vicious derision.
Several guests chuckled under their breath, making no attempt to hide their scorn.
Though no one voiced it aloud, the crowd's irritation was evident. Many had been waiting for over an hour to see the painting, only for the event to be delayed for a girl with a reputation.
Instead of backing down, the man smirked wider, basking in the silence that followed his jab.
Philip's face darkened. "Roe, mind your tongue. We're here to appreciate art, not cast judgment on people's backgrounds. Everyone deserves respect."
Roe gave an exaggerated shrug. "I apologize, Mr. Johnson. I just find it hard to share a room with certain... clucking animals."
The insult was cruel and deliberate—likening Alice to a vulgar, noisy chicken.
Alice's cheeks flushed with fury, but before she could respond, John stepped forward.
And punched Roe straight in the face.
The blow landed with a brutal crack, sending Roe sprawling to the polished floorboards.
Gasps filled the room.
John's eyes blazed with righteous fury. "No one insults my sister."
Not even God Himself could've stopped him in that moment.
And beyond his protective instinct, there was something else—certainty.
With his extensive medical knowledge, John could tell at a glance that Alice was still a virgin. Her flirtatious demeanor was just that—a performance. A layer of charm she used to disarm others.
These people—these snakes—had no right to insult her based on rumors.
Roe groaned, clutching his jaw, then staggered up, his hands balling into fists. "How dare you—!"
Before he could lunge, a voice thundered from the back of the room. "Apologize. Now."
Everyone turned to see a stern-faced man emerge from the crowd—Roe's father, Wade Wilson. A respected patron of the arts, Wade was a powerful figure in cultural circles.
"Dad—!"
"I said apologize. Or get out."
Wade's voice was steel, and Roe's bluster evaporated under it.
His jaw clenched as he muttered, "Miss Moon… Mr. Johnson… I apologize. I shouldn't have caused a scene."
A few guests chuckled awkwardly, trying to shift the mood.
"Let's not get too serious—it was just a joke, right?"
"Yes, yes. We're here to enjoy art, not hold grudges."
"Mr. Johnson, would you please unveil the painting? We've all been dying to see it."
With the tension easing, the room settled into a reverent hush.
Philip gave a solemn nod and retrieved a scroll from his collection shelf. With careful hands, he unrolled it on the central display stand.
A soft gasp rippled through the room.
"It's real… it's really the Master of the Clouds!" someone whispered.
The artist's unmistakable style leapt from the canvas: flowing strokes that danced with subtle energy, each line imbued with silent poetry. The composition was deceptively simple—an eagle mid-flight—but layered with such intensity that it pulled the eye in and held it captive.
No forger could replicate such instinctive brilliance.
Alice's eyes sparkled like moonlight on water.
But John… John stood frozen, his brows furrowed.
This image…
This eagle…
He'd drawn it.
Years ago, when he was thirteen, he'd lazily sketched an eagle perched on a tree after a long martial arts session. It was a whim—just lines on paper. He'd even spilled some red fruit juice on the eagle's head, staining the page.
That red mark… it was still there.
It wasn't a copy.
It was his.
He was the Master of the Clouds?
The realization struck him like thunder on a clear day.
Back then, he hadn't cared about the sketches. He often tossed them aside. But his old Taoist mentor, eccentric and ever-scheming, must have collected them and brought them down the mountain.
And then created the myth of a faceless master to sell them to the world.
John exhaled a long breath, both exasperated and impressed.
"That old Taoist… You were more cunning than I gave you credit for."