In a single, swift motion, Luo Chen reached forward, his hand moving like a strike of lightning, and tore the painting apart—its delicate fabric ripping with a resounding sound that echoed through the room, leaving both Meng'er and Grandpa Luo in stunned silence, their faces frozen in disbelief
Eyes wide with disbelief, Grandpa Luo stepped forward and picked up a torn fragment from the floor. Luo Chen, still holding a piece in his hand, stood silent—his expression unreadable.
Grandpa Luo examined the fragment, then looked up sharply.
"Mr. Luo... what is this?" he asked, voice low with a mix of confusion and awe.
Both he and Meng'er leaned in, their gazes fixed on the piece in Luo Chen's hand—something about it pulling their curiosity deeper than they expected.
Luo Chen asked, "What's the difference between these three ink marks?"
Meng'er and Grandpa looked toward the focused old man. After a moment of silence, the old man said, "Well, in my opinion... there is no difference between the three. I would like to ask Mr. Luo to enlighten me."
Luo Chen, his movements deliberate and measured, handed the torn painting back to the old man, his expression a cold, unyielding mask. The disdain in his voice was palpable, each word laced with a quiet, cutting arrogance as he spoke, making it clear he held no respect for the deception before him.
"Take a closer look," he said coolly. "There are two spots where the ink bleeds unnaturally… and one where the brushstroke overlaps—but the ink doesn't separate, doesn't fade, doesn't even change shade."
He paused for a moment, his silence heavier than words, allowing the full weight of his revelation to settle over the room like a suffocating fog.
"What kind of authentic painting behaves like that?"
The old man's hands trembled slightly as he examined the piece, eyes narrowing. Meng'er, still fuming, leaned in despite herself.
Luo Chen stepped back, arms folded behind him. His presence was quiet but oppressive—like a mountain of judgment.
"This isn't age," he said flatly. "It's fabrication."
The old man's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the torn painting in his hands. "High-precision inkjet printing…" he murmured, the words heavy with shame. His fingers trembled. He had been deceived—fooled by those he trusted. The truth hit harder than any blow. The pride he once had in the painting crumbled into silent regret.
The old man silently handed the torn scroll to his bodyguard, his expression solemn. "Put it away," he said firmly.
The bodyguard nodded without question, taking the painting with both hands. "Yes, sir," he replied, stepping back to throw it.
The old man fell into deep thought, his brows furrowed. This kind of precision printing technology… if it hadn't been shredded and exposed side by side, he mused silently, even an experienced appraiser might have failed to detect it.
A chill ran through him—not from the forgery itself, but from how easily he had been fooled.
Thinking deeply, the old man whispered to himself, "But this Mr. Luo… with just a single glance, he identified the forgery and proved it without hesitation. Such sharp insight, such calm precision… this aura—it's beyond the reach of ordinary masters."
A sense of awe welled within him, his heart stirred by the mysterious youth before him.
Luo Chen, showing no reaction, simply let out a quiet, "Hmm?"
His eyes slowly drifted to the wooden box—the unassuming container that had once cradled the painting, now resting quietly in the corner, as if hiding secrets of its own
Just as the bodyguard turned to toss it out the window, Luo Chen's voice cut in, calm and cold.
"Wait a minute," he said, stepping forward. "This wooden box…"
opportunity. Sensing a chance to gain favor, he quickly stepped forward and said with a warm smile,
"What? Mr. Luo is interested in this wooden box? If you like it, please, just take it. Consider it a small gesture of respect."
Luo Chen raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh?" he muttered softly, then whispered to himself, How can he be so simple? Even if he's unaware… this wooden box holds seeds capable of awakening cultivation.
The old man, not knowing how precious the wooden box truly was, gave a silent nod to his bodyguard. The man respectfully handed it to Luo Chen.
Luo Chen took it calmly, his gaze steady as he whispered again, He should at least sense… that anything worthy of this Emperor's interest is never ordinary. It seems this old man is truly willing to let go.
Luo Chen took the wooden box into his hands, his expression calm but firm. "To be honest," he said, eyes fixed on the old man, "there's something inside this box that I need. But I don't want to owe anyone for it."
A serious look crossed his face as he added, "So… I'll promise you one thing in return."
The old man's eyes sharpened with emotion. After a brief pause, he straightened his back and nodded solemnly. "Since Mr. Luo has opened his mouth, how could I treat you as a stranger?"
With a deep breath, he gently pushed his stunned granddaughter forward and said with determination, "Please… accept my granddaughter as your disciple!"
Both Luo Chen and Meng'er were stunned by the sudden declaration.
Meng'er's eyes widened in disbelief as she stumbled a step back. "Grandpa?" she exclaimed, her voice shaking. "Grandpa, what are you doing?"
She turned toward him, her expression torn between confusion and protest. "Why do you want me to worship him as a teacher? He's just… just a stranger!"
But in that very moment, Luo Chen's gaze locked onto Meng'er. In her stance, her spirit, even the defiance in her eyes—he saw the shadow of his former disciple.
His chest tightened as memories surged forth—of betrayal, of pain, of trust shattered.
A faint tremble passed through him. His eyes, once calm, now gleamed with a cold, simmering anger. That familiar presence… it was unmistakable.