Chapter 35: Understanding

                             

The murmurs continued as the examiners displayed the completed paintings, ensuring all could see and verify the fairness of the results.

Fan Liuer and Zhao Yan’s works depicted autumn chrysanthemums in a garden. Beautiful, yes, but conventional—their ordinary artistic conception left them at the lower rankings.

Qin Qing presented a “Red Immortal” chrysanthemum, rendered with meticulous realism. The single branch seemed almost alive. Technique was flawless, yet lacking in artistic intention, the painting secured only third place.

Then it was Shen Yue’s turn. Beside Chen Ruoqiu, she forced a smile, lips tight, fists clenched. Ordinarily, she would have accepted admiration gracefully, but this time, the second-place recognition felt like ridicule, drawing the gazes of all around her.

Her painting depicted a weathered chrysanthemum, petals battered by wind and rain, clinging steadfastly to its stem, a testament to integrity. Below, she inscribed:
"Better to die embracing fragrance on the branch than ever to have fallen in the northern wind."

The concept was lofty—noble and upright, reflecting both character and artistry. If Shen Yue, at her peak, could not claim first rank, then what could Shen Miao have possibly painted?

Bai Wei whispered, incredulous, “How could such a painting not be first?” Chen Ruoqiu shared her puzzlement. Shen Yue had executed flawlessly, yet the result defied expectation.

On stage, attendants unfurled Shen Miao’s scroll. At first glance, the painting seemed simple, sparse, with minimal technical flourish. But the broad strokes conveyed a vast, haunting grandeur.

Endless yellow sands stretched under a slanting blood-red sun. A broken sword jutted from the earth, and beside it lay a handful of white chrysanthemums—small, delicate, almost incidental, yet their presence imbued the scene with life.

Silence fell over the hall. Through brush and paper, the audience could feel desolation, struggle, the weight of tragedy.

It was war.

Chen Ruoqiu and Shen Yue trembled simultaneously. Shen Yue’s noble and elegant conception could never compete with the raw, immense power of Shen Miao’s vision. Where Shen Yue praised human character through flowers, Shen Miao expressed ambition and the stark cruelty of life.

No wonder the examiners had argued so vehemently—such profound artistry from the “foolish” Shen Miao was unimaginable.

Grand Secretary Zhong Ziqi addressed her: “Student Shen Miao, please explain the reason behind your painting.”

All first-rank students shared their insights. Today, however, no one believed Shen Miao could have created such a work unaided—they suspected guidance or imitation.

Shen Qing whispered to Yi Peilan, “Now she’ll be exposed.”

Yi Peilan, perplexed, replied, “But she painted it herself, stroke by stroke…”

Shen Qing scoffed, “Perhaps she sought guidance just to impress Prince Jing.”

Shen Miao ascended the stage calmly. Touching the scroll, her voice rang out, clear and steady:

“My father said countless heroic men die on the battlefield, buried in yellow sands without even a single chrysanthemum to mark their sacrifice. The soldiers never see flowers, nor do their families mourn properly.

“This painting places a handful of white chrysanthemums above the fallen; to honour the brave whose lives allow us to enjoy peace and prosperity. The flowers bloom not for us, but in tribute to their courage.”

Her words resonated, crisp as wind through chimes, striking every heart. Shen Miao’s calm gaze belied the immense weight of her message—subtle, yet undeniable.

The purple-clad young lady’s resolve was evident: the world would witness the merit and sacrifice of the Shen family, even if the Ming Qi royal house sought to suppress them. She made her statement boldly, unafraid, letting truth speak where power would otherwise silence it.

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