Chapter 80: Gently Drawing Near

He wrote his name on the blackboard.

His handwriting was as graceful as his bearing—delicate and slender as bamboo.

His voice, too, was like silk falling onto the keys of a piano. “Hello, everyone. I’ve transferred here from Haining University. My name is Fang Wenjin.”

The girls in the class were beside themselves, torn between laughter and tears by their fondness for him.

They all began to preen and pose shamelessly, putting on a show to attract his attention. Some even hurriedly stashed their makeup into their desks, then gazed longingly at the boy on the podium who seemed almost godlike.

Boys like him were a rarity.

When Zhong Huayan met his gaze, he paused for a few seconds before speaking slowly. “May I sit in the last row?”

The whole class was briefly stunned, sensing an inexplicable undercurrent in the air.

“Of course,” the homeroom teacher replied indifferently.

She couldn’t help but twitch at the corners of her mouth.

Although all the girls liked him, they seemed even more enthralled by the idea of pairing him with someone. In their eyes, this strange atmosphere suggested the two must have some story between them.

He was tall and slender. Striding to the seat beside hers, he reached out his hand, a breath of spring in his gesture. “Hello, from now on, we’ll be desk mates.”

Zhong Huayan had a feeling.

Soon enough, both sides of her would be occupied, though she preferred peace and valued her privacy.

This was not a good thing.

“Hello, I’m Li Yanyan.”

Out of politeness, she took his hand.

To her surprise, though he appeared rather frail, his hand was warm—slender yet strong.

She could even feel the gentleness emanating from his touch.

It reminded her of Fu Yanyan. Though he looked tall and sturdy, his hands were always cold.

Throughout the class, she felt drowsy. Staring at her art book, she soon dozed off. When she woke up…

She found herself surrounded by classmates, with both windows packed with students from other classes, all trying to catch a glimpse of a celebrity.

Some even shyly stepped forward to speak to her.

“Excuse me, could I get your autograph?”

“If you’re looking for Fang Wenjin, I don’t know where he’s gone. Wait a moment.”

Several girls from other classes seemed slightly confused, then explained, “We’re not looking for Fang Wenjin. We want your autograph.”

This left her stunned for several minutes.

Feeling a little embarrassed, she took a pen and signed her name.

She hadn’t thought of herself as much of a celebrity or influencer, yet here she was, with female fans.

More girls soon came, asking for autographs; some even wanted to call her their teacher and begged her to teach them classical dance…

“Oh, Li Yanyan, you’ve come to school but didn’t stop by the principal’s office. I wanted to welcome you properly,” the principal said, approaching with deliberate steps, all flattery, and with Fang Wenjin in tow—his demeanor was nothing if not sycophantic.

She couldn’t be bothered to respond.

The principal, however, was proactive. “From now on, whenever you come to school, I’ll come to greet you. It’s not every day our school produces a genius. I’ve always cherished talent. You and Fang Wenjin will be desk mates, so help each other out.”

Fang Wenjin took his seat, and the principal stuffed his textbooks into the desk drawer.

Then, shooting them both a sly look, he muttered, “A perfect match—two promising young artists.”

When the bell rang for class, Zhong Huayan opened her art album.

She flipped through the history of art across various countries, then recent high-scoring works from the art academies. From renowned Western oil paintings to Chinese calligraphy sold at auction. The world of art was intricate and vast, with countless branches and schools of thought. She remembered being forced to memorize all the styles and methods from elementary school before gradually learning techniques, and finally, finding her own style through daily practice.

“Did you enter the global art competition this year?” Fang Wenjin’s gentle voice carried a frail undertone that always made her uneasy.

“Yes.”

“Amazing. You’re skilled not only in dance but also in painting.”

“It’s alright. The arts are all interconnected. If you master one, the rest aren’t that hard to pick up if you put in the effort.”

Fang Wenjin’s fingers were pale and slender as he lightly rested them on the album. “Could you teach me how to paint? I don’t know how.”

For the first time, Zhong Huayan noticed that when he smiled, his eyes curved like a fox’s—mischievously bright.

“Maybe next month. I’m busy with competitions right now. But you can start by reading these books—the lines inside are all important basics. If you’re sincere, lay a solid foundation first.”

“Alright,” he replied obediently.

He looked quiet and well-behaved. Not exactly attentive in class, but never disruptive either. He seemed physically frail, sometimes resting his head on the desk to sleep.

The teachers didn’t care much; special students received special treatment.

Sometimes, after finishing her book, Zhong Huayan would turn her head and catch glimpses of sunlight on his cheek, his hair, his eyelashes… so pure it bordered on unreal. The serenity was exquisite—more breathtaking than the white jade fan from the Qing dynasty she had once seen.

His skin almost seemed to glow, delicate and beautiful, every feature like a piece of art. When wisps of hair brushed his lashes and trembled, it was like the first flutter of a butterfly’s wings in spring.

His long legs stretched effortlessly under the desk’s bar. Rare was the boy who could be described as quiet and lovely. He was never rough, nor cunning; his eyes were always clear. Sometimes, he was startled by sudden sounds, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Although Xu Chuyin was also delicate-featured, there was always a hint of cunning and aggression about him—one glance and you’d know he was a boy.

But Fang Wenjin’s beauty was more pure, blurring the line of gender entirely.

It was difficult to imagine, almost unbelievable.

A boy who had endured such a tragic childhood, yet instead of growing rebellious and fierce, had turned out gentle and serene—even bringing peace to those around him.

He was the perfect testament to how art could cleanse the soul. True artists always carried a touch of detachment from the mundane; at the very least, their aura was never lacking.

After class, some students secretly took photos of Fang Wenjin and posted them on social media and forums.

Awakened by the bell, Fang Wenjin opened his eyes naturally, still a little dazed. He rubbed his arm and blinked a few times.

Noticing that she was still deep in thought, he hesitated, but then quietly asked,

“Will you be having dinner at school tonight?”

“Sure.”

She thought she’d probably return to her rented apartment tonight. After all, what she sought was not wealth or fame, but the promotion of culture and art.

“Alright, I’ll bring you something. What would you like?”

He took his meal card from the drawer.

“Anything is fine.”

Fang Wenjin smiled faintly. As soon as he stepped out, a group of delinquent students appeared.

Rubbing his temples as if used to this, he said casually,

“Thank you, everyone. I’m not in good health—could you bring me two meals? Ten thousand each.”

The students were overjoyed. In their eyes, the young master of the Fang family was a world apart from them. Not only they, but even their fathers would have scrambled for the chance to run errands for him.