In the world of fine art—especially painting and calligraphy—most masters were elderly. That was the general consensus.
After all, while the techniques of art could be learned, expressing emotion, depth, and philosophy through a brush required more than skill. It demanded life experience. Time.
That's why the enigmatic Master of Clouds, whose works were layered with profound meaning, had always been assumed to be an elderly man—at least fifty years old, with a head full of grey hair and a soul weathered by hardship and introspection.
Even Lanny used to believe this.
But the moment she received the autograph… she froze.
The Master of Clouds hadn't revealed his face. It was only a photo of his back. But still—
That back didn't belong to an old man.
It was clearly a young man.
Tall. Straight. Radiating effortless grace.
It overturned everything they thought they knew.
Some doubters whispered, "Could this be a publicity stunt?"
But their skepticism was quickly silenced.
Two things made the identity beyond question:
Hugh, the director of the Artist Alliance himself, had vouched for it.
The signature on the photo—elegant, flowing, and distinctly Master of Clouds's style—was unmistakable.
There was no forgery here. These ten autographed prints weren't just souvenirs—they were artworks, each bearing the mark of the legendary master.
The auction hall erupted.
"The Master of Clouds… is a young man?"
"He's a genius! How could someone so young create art with such soul?!"
Admiration swept the room.
But for many young women, admiration transformed into something else entirely.
Infatuation.
Tall. Talented. Mysterious.
A gifted artist with depth—and now, youth and charm?
To them, he was the perfect man. Some girls who had once idolized Master of Clouds for his works were now obsessed with discovering who he really was.
From the contours of his jawline to the effortless confidence in his stance—even from behind—he radiated irresistible charisma.
He was no longer just an artist. He was a dream.
But not everyone in the room was swooning.
Marcia Yeats stared at the photograph, frowning deeply. Something about the figure… it tugged at her memory.
The clothes. That posture.
It felt too familiar.
And then—like a lightning bolt—she remembered.
That night. The first time she had visited Greenland Villa to confront John.
He had been wearing those exact same clothes.
Her head snapped up.
She scanned the hall.
And there he was—John—just as he was quietly leaving the venue.
His figure was already fading into the shadows of a corner exit, but it was enough.
Her eyes widened.
It was him.
The man she had once mocked as a mere freeloader…
Could he really be Master of Clouds?
For the first time, Marcia—known across the State of New York as a woman of iron will—was shaken.
Truly shaken.
She stood up so abruptly that her seat nearly toppled.
"Backstage," she ordered, heels clacking as she hurried.
Nick scrambled after her. "Marcia? What's going on?!"
But she didn't answer.
Backstage, chaos reigned.
Yelena was surrounded by a circle of skincare industry giants—CEOs and executives—each throwing offers at her team.
"We'll triple your salary!"
"Name your price!"
"Sell us the formula, and we'll cover all the legal penalties!"
The offers escalated quickly, reaching numbers that made heads spin.
But Yelena was unmoved.
She remained calm—cold, even.
"Thank you for your generosity," she said, "but no one on our team is leaving Queenie Group. And as for the formula for BEAUTY—I don't have the right to sell or share it."
A wave of disbelief passed through the crowd.
What?
"You're the director of product development," one executive argued. "If you don't have the rights, then who does?"
Marcia stepped forward, her voice slightly hoarse. "Ms. Yelena… Is it because of John?"
It was a gamble.
She wasn't sure. Not completely.
But she had to ask.
Yelena turned and looked at her.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Her glance alone said everything.
Marcia staggered back a step. The truth crashed into her like a wave.
It was John.
He was the mind behind BEAUTY.
He was the one these powerful companies were unknowingly chasing.
He was… the Master of Clouds.
Marcia's body trembled.
For so long, she had looked down on him. Mocked him. Called him trash.
And now…
Her mind reeled with disbelief.
Outside the Cultural Palace, Hugh stepped into the cool night air.
His secretary rushed over to open the door of the car. "Director."
Hugh waved a hand. "You go ahead. I'll take a taxi later—meeting two friends for dinner."
"Yes, sir," the secretary replied obediently and got into the car.
As he started to drive away, the secretary glanced out the window—and did a double-take.
Hugh, the revered director of the Artist Alliance, had just walked over to two men.
One of them was Alton, the head of the Wood family—an elite figure in his own right.
But the other…
The other was a young man the secretary didn't recognize.
What shocked him wasn't the man's identity—it was the way Hugh greeted him.
With a wide smile, Hugh placed a hand on the young man's shoulder as if they were old friends. Equals.
No—as if the young man was someone Hugh respected deeply.
The secretary froze.
Who was this young man, who walked so casually with the great director of the Artist Alliance and the head of the Wood family?
His hands trembled on the wheel.
Whatever answer lay behind that question… it was big.