After the Sang-Style Beauty Married the Disabled Villain [Transmigration] - Chapter 18

Soon, the hot post regarding “Shen Jia-Li stealing an account to rig votes” floated to the top of the forum homepage. Although this forum was composed of provincial top scorers from the college entrance exams, sometimes academic qualifications and quality of character do not seem to be entirely correlated.

What’s more, once it involved their president, everyone became suspicious of everything.

[I checked, and my account had a remote login yesterday, so I was hacked too, right?]

[Me too. I’m so pitiful. It took me three years of spamming to finally get this high-level forum account TAT. In the end, someone changed the password. If you want to hack the account, just hack it; why change my password? (Angry)]

[Sure enough, Shen Jia-Li will never change. Even when broken and shattered, every piece is full of trickery.]

[Can the director of the promotional video or the moderator contact Shen Jia-Li? He needs to give an explanation for this.]

[Right, we must let the president know about this. In a school as rigorous as ours, we absolutely cannot let one rat dropping spoil the whole pot of soup.]

[Agreed! Those who maliciously hack accounts to destroy fairness must be severely punished without leniency!]

On the other side, Seven Colors Flower Arts Education School.

Shen Jia-Li sat among a pile of children under the age of six, listening to the energetic interaction between the kids and the teacher. His face was blank; he knew nothing when asked, and it took him a long time to react even when his name was called.

The parents outside the door looked at him and shook their heads regretfully: “The little face is so likable, it’s a pity he has Down syndrome.”

Shen Jia-Li was daydreaming; he was tired, his eyes infinitely tending toward closing.

They had agreed on one course per week what kind of madness had taken hold of Nan Liujing? He suddenly wanted him to come here daily to clock in at a fixed time and deliver a work upon returning home.

Every second in the classroom felt like sitting on pins and needles. Finally, class ended. After the teacher helped write the theme title on the bottom right corner of each child’s work, Shen Jia-Li stood between a pair of children holding his own dark, messy blob of a work to take a photo.

Uncle Li squeezed into the crowd of parents, holding his phone to take pictures, a kind, fatherly smile on his lips. He felt that Shen Jia-Li painted so well—these chubby, rounded lines, the unconventional use of color—it was practically comparable to Caravaggio.

As soon as he got home, Uncle Li presented Shen Jia-Li’s masterpiece to Nan Liujing like a treasure. Nan Liujing looked at the black blob and frowned: “What is this painted?”

Uncle Li pointed to the title the teacher had written in the bottom right corner, his face beaming with a maternal smile: “The theme for Mr. Shen’s lesson this time was ‘The Person I Love Most.’ Although the picture is slightly immature, one can tell he put enough heart into it.”

Nan Liujing frowned, observed it repeatedly for a long time, and asked again: “Is this painted to be a person?”

“Look at how evenly this black suit is painted, and this gray blob—that’s the wheelchair. It seems that in Mr. Shen’s heart, you are the person he loves most.”

Nan Liujing looked at it again and again. So, this unknown substance that looks like trash is me?

However, the person I love most?

The fingers tightly gripping the drawing paper suddenly relaxed, the fingertips gently and repeatedly stroking the small line of the theme text. For a long while, Nan Liujing set the work aside. He couldn’t believe it. This was Shen Jia-Li, the Shen Jia-Li who had attempted to poison him to death on their first day of marriage. “The person I love most”—he feared it was actually “the person I want to finish off most.”

“Uncle Li, help me contact the Molotow Museum exhibition hall and a custom invitation studio. By the way, send all of Shen Jia-Li’s previous works to be framed.”

Time turned back one hour, to the classroom of the Seven Colors Flower School.

Shen Jia-Li lowered his head, slowly smearing the drawing paper. The children next to him couldn’t help but whisper: “This older brother draws too ugly. No wonder he has to learn painting with us kids.”

Teacher Xiao Tu heard the children’s blunt words. Fearing that Shen Jia-Li’s “young” heart would suffer trauma, she quickly stepped forward to change the subject: “Student Li-Li, your coloring is very even. Shall Teacher reward you with a small sticker?”

As she spoke, she tore off a small lychee sticker to stick on his forehead, but was promptly stopped by his quick reflexes. The teacher laughed awkwardly and asked: “Is this the person Li-Li loves most? Can you tell Teacher who you drew?”

Shen Jia-Li didn’t even lift his eyes: “Mom.”

“Oh, it’s Mom. Student Li-Li is such a filial and good child. Then can you tell Teacher what this black blob is?”

Shen Jia-Li: “Dirt.”

Teacher: “?”

“Then what are these grays? Are they Mom’s clothes?”

Shen Jia-Li: “Tombstone.”

It took Teacher Xiao Tu a long time to react—she had stepped on a huge landmine! It turned out that his mother had already left the world, yet she had insisted on “touching the sore spot.” I deserve a beating!

At almost the same time, students from Shen Jia-Li’s college, school leaders, all employees of Huanhai Electronics and the Shen Group, as well as leaders in various industries, artists, influencers, and socialites, all received a strange invitation. When opened, it read in large letters:

[2023 Shen Jia-Li Personal Art Achievement Exhibition will be held at the Molotow Museum this Sunday. Everyone is welcome to attend and provide guidance.]

Everyone: “???”

Shen Jia-Li’s… art achievement exhibition?

Isn’t he… studying computer science…?

How freaking impressive must the works be to be shown off at the Molotow Museum? I remember that the works previously exhibited at that museum were at worst created by the president of a top art academy, and it was a permanent residence for masters like Pissarro and Cézanne.

Sure enough, the Huanhai consortium is wealthy and arrogant. To please their new little good-for-nothing, they don’t hesitate to spend huge sums of money.

I’m so envious.

The students of Jinhai University looked at each other, holding their invitations, their faces full of question marks.

Shen Jia-Li’s art exhibition… what is the point of studying the works of this useless person? But the fine print at the bottom said that those who went could receive a delicate gift. The gifts sent by the consortium shouldn’t be too bad, so should we go just to get the gift and leave?

Almost everyone in Jinhai City knew that Shen Jia-Li’s “great work” was to be exhibited at the museum except for Shen Jia-Li himself.

On the day of the exhibition, Shen Jia-Li was sleeping when a rush of knocking sounded. Before he could respond, Uncle Li broke into the room, dragged him off the bed, and took him to the bathroom to get dressed.

He washed his face, applied perfume, and finally put him in a beige court-style ruffled shirt, pulled on khaki high-waisted straight-leg pants, and buckled on a brown painter’s cap. Pulled slantingly, he looked just like an 18th-century little court painter tall and slender, his little face as tender as a newly shelled egg young and beautiful.

Shen Jia-Li slowly let out a line of… What is this for…?

“Mr. Shen, don’t be nervous when you get there later. Just say what you need to say and introduce it normally.” Uncle Li meticulously groomed his bangs, speaking incoherently.

Without giving Shen Jia-Li a chance to ask, Uncle Li went downstairs to call a driver. Shen Jia-Li was thus muddle-headedly dragged to the entrance of the Molotow Museum.

The entrance was full of luxury cars; all sorts of people gathered in one place, and the area within a hundred miles was blocked so tightly that not even water could pass through.

Seeing so many people, Shen Jia-Li’s social phobia was about to flare up. He subconsciously wanted to leave, but the next second, he was pulled by the driver to the back door of the museum. When they went in, it wasn’t yet the opening time. Shen Jia-Li was arranged in the backstage lounge, still with a face full of question marks.

Before long, a few voices of conversation came from the front hall, followed by orderly footsteps. Then, Shen Jia-Li was called to the front hall by an employee wearing an ID badge.

In the huge exhibition hall, a few works were sparsely hung on the surrounding walls, all covered with red cloth, looking expensive. On the large stage, sat a very familiar-looking man.

The cuffs of his navy blue suit revealed a slice of snow-white shirt sleeve; the wrist extending out was no less impressive, connected to a broad palm with slender, well-defined fingers. Looking up further, it was a face fully armed with a mask and sunglasses. His black silk-like hair was meticulously groomed, the ends trimmed exquisitely and neatly, hanging over a fair neck.

Nan Liujing…

Wait, what was the banner on the art wall behind him?

[2023 Shen Jia-Li Personal Art Achievement Exhibition]

Personal achievement exhibition…

Save me…! Nan Liujing, you’re killing me!

Shen Jia-Li remembered; there was a segment like this in the original text. The original owner had knelt for three days and nights to the villain to sell his trashy paintings, begging him to hold an exhibition for him. The villain finally agreed, but at his painting level, if you scattered millet on paper and let a chicken peck it, the lines pecked out would be better than what he drew—naturally, he was mercilessly mocked by all sectors of society.

Not only did the original owner lose face, but the villain who held the exhibition for him also couldn’t hang his head. Once the exhibition ended, he dragged him home, stripped him bare, and threw him into a cold lake. Every time the original owner struggled to poke his head out, the villain would ruthlessly push him back down, nearly killing him.

Later, although his life was saved for the time being, it left a permanent illness—his knees would ache unbearably whenever it was windy or rainy.

Shen Jia-Li was speechless. Could the author move his little brain a bit while writing? The villain hates the original owner that much; would he help him hold an art exhibition? Forcibly manufacturing “cool” points, right?

Setting aside whether it was reasonable or not, once the red cloth was lifted…

Forget it, respect the fate of others.

He had forgotten what he had drawn, but at his level, he estimated that he would seamlessly connect to the original text. Can we skip straight to the villain throwing me into the lake? I absolutely won’t struggle.

On the stage, Nan Liujing pulled the microphone and said faintly: “Welcome, everyone, to my wife’s humble work exhibition. My wife is still a beginner, and his brushwork is immature. If you have any valuable opinions, we will humbly accept them. Thank you.”

In this way, in the eyes of others, Nan Liujing was a “five-good” man who doted on his wife. It was a pity that the wife was disappointing; spending so much money on classes was just a waste of time. With so many witnesses, the excuse for divorce became logical.

Nan Liujing sneered, his peripheral vision slowly (probing) Shen Jia-Li on the side. He was already completely petrified.

After the “thank you” fell, the visitors ordered themselves in a line before the paintings, waiting for the staff to reveal the mysterious veil of the great works.

The people of the consortium wanted to cultivate their sentiments, so the teachers they invited were undoubtedly top-tier masters in the country. Even if they were just following the pattern, it shouldn’t be too ugly.

The red cloth was peeled off carefully by the employees, who feared damaging the works beneath. The crowd curious stretched their necks, staring hard at the paintings under the red cloth.

The next second.

Crowd: “…”

They must not understand art. Not sure, let’s look again.

But the paintings were almost poked through by their gazes, and they still couldn’t see why these works were good! Chaotic lines, color schemes with no relationship—they would believe it if someone said it was a messy scribble by a kindergarten child!

Expressions of embarrassment appeared on everyone’s faces, but hindered by the fact that the person was the daughter-in-law of a large consortium, they had to desperately disguise it, adopting the posture of an expert and nodding repeatedly:

“A very ingenious composition. They say that works can convey the artist’s thoughts and express rational and emotional understanding. Therefore, what Mr. Shen wants to express when creating this work is the sorrow for those unknown filthiness under this prosperous age.”

Inwardly, however: Damn, eyesore. For the sake of the gift, endure it.

Some painters who had spent money multiple times but were still rejected by galleries couldn’t sit still. Is this abstract style popular now? What is so abstract about it? Our eyes are clumsy; we really don’t see it.

But in front of that work “The Person I Love Most,” stood a middle-aged man in his forties with dark hair, sword-like eyebrows, and a crisp suit that revealed a bit of scholarly elegance. He looked up, quietly watching the painting, as if there was some factor that attracted him very much. Just like that, he stood for one minute, ten minutes, half an hour.

Throughout the entire time, no matter how lively the discussions were next to him, his gaze had never shifted for even half a second.