A Legacy Recognized

Professor Xu had barely been gone five minutes.

Lex had just begun stacking the empty scroll cases, wiping the last traces of ink from his desk, when his phone buzzed.

An international number.

Lex glanced at the screen. Chinese Embassy.

His brows lifted slightly. They don't waste time.

He answered. "Latham."

A smooth, professional voice greeted him. "Mr. Latham, this is Minister Zhao from the Chinese Embassy. I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time."

Lex's smirk was slight. "That depends. Am I about to be lectured or congratulated?"

A brief chuckle. "Congratulated. And thanked."

Lex leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing one arm over his chest. "For what, exactly?"

"For your contribution to the National Art Museum," Minister Zhao said smoothly. "Professor Xu has informed us of your exhibition, and after reviewing the selected works, we feel they are not just an artistic showcase—but a historical bridge."

Lex's fingers tapped lightly against the desk. "A bridge."

"Your family spans three generations of artistic mastery," Zhao continued. "Lei Yongzhi, Mei Lei, and now you—Ling Jun. Your work is not just the journey of an individual, but the journey of a legacy. Elder teaching younger, passing wisdom through ink."

Lex inhaled slowly.

He hadn't thought of it that way.

Or maybe, deep down, he had—just never said it aloud.

"We would like to extend an offer," Zhao continued. "The museum wishes to dedicate an entire wing to your family. A long-term exhibition, showcasing all the works that Professor Xu has selected, preserved under your name."

Lex didn't speak.

Because that—that was something different.

Not just an exhibition. A permanent mark.

A quiet, lasting recognition that he—and the generations before him—had been here.

Had mattered.

Minister Zhao's voice softened slightly. "We also wish to offer you a lifetime visa to China, should you choose to visit whenever you wish."

Lex exhaled slowly, smirking faintly. "Generous."

"Fitting."

A pause.

Lex glanced at the near-empty box of his grandmother's chosen works.

Then at the drying ink on his most recent painting.

He lifted the phone back to his ear.

"I accept."

There was a quiet pause on the other end of the line, as if Minister Zhao had expected Lex to negotiate, to deliberate. But Lex had already made his decision.

"Excellent," Zhao said smoothly. "We will arrange the formal agreements with Professor Xu. Your family's artistic legacy deserves to be honored properly."

Lex's fingers tapped against the desk, his voice casual. "And what exactly does that 'proper honor' entail?"

"A dedicated hall in the East Wing." Zhao's tone carried a quiet certainty. "Your great-grandfather's literary contributions, your grandmother's mastery of calligraphy and ink painting, and now—your own evolution of the form. Your work will stand beside theirs as a continuous lineage."

Lex exhaled slowly. "Three generations."

"A legacy," Zhao corrected. "One that China is proud to claim."

Lex smirked slightly. "You do realize I'm still alive, right? You're talking like I'm already in the history books."

Zhao chuckled. "History is written long before it is acknowledged." A pause. "Besides, I imagine you'll only add to it."

Lex hummed noncommittally, but he wasn't entirely dismissing the thought.

There was something unshakable about it.

His name—Ling Jun—would be there. Not as an investor, not as a businessman, but as an artist.

Something untouchable. Something that couldn't be taken away, sabotaged, or stolen.

His ink would last.

Zhao's voice came again. "Our cultural division will handle all arrangements. We will send the formal paperwork tomorrow."

Lex rolled his shoulders, shaking off the last remnants of hesitation. "I'll have my people look over it."

"Of course." Another pause, then—"Congratulations, Mr. Latham. Or rather—Ling Jun."

Lex didn't answer right away.

Then, slowly, he smirked. "I suppose I should get used to that."

The call ended.

Lex set the phone down, staring at the near-empty wooden box, the last remnants of his grandmother's carefully chosen paintings still inside.

A hall in the National Museum. A lifetime visa.

And a name that would outlive him.

He huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Well." He exhaled, shaking his head. "Didn't see that coming."

Lex stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, the weight of the conversation settling in.

A hall in the National Art Museum.

A legacy carved into ink and time.

His name—Ling Jun—not just a footnote, but a statement.

Permanent.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before closing the wooden box with quiet precision. He had barely turned toward the desk when his phone buzzed again.

Another call.

Lex glanced at the screen, expecting Minister Zhao again.

But it wasn't the embassy.

His smirk twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes.

It was his mother.

Lex exhaled through his nose, debating whether to let it ring—but he knew better.

With a flick of his thumb, he answered. "You're late. The embassy beat you to it."

Lian Mei's voice was crisp, but there was something in it that hadn't been there in a long time. Pride.

"They should have. You belong there."

Lex leaned against the desk, smirking. "High praise."

A quiet pause. "Your grandmother would have been pleased."

That—that was different.

Lex didn't answer right away. He ran a thumb along the grain of the wooden box, the familiar texture grounding him.

Then, softly—"Yeah."

Another pause.

Then his mother's voice, quieter this time. "You should come to Hong Kong before the exhibition. There are things you should see."

Lex tilted his head slightly. "Things?"

A knowing hum. "You'll understand when you're here."

Lex huffed, shaking his head. "You really do love your riddles."

"I learned from the best."

Lex smirked faintly. "Fine. I'll think about it."

Lian Mei's tone was calm. "No, you'll come."

Lex chuckled, rubbing his temple. "I'll call you when I book the flight."

"Good." A pause. Then, softer—"I'm proud of you."

Lex's fingers stilled against the desk.

She had never said that before.

Not like this.

Lex swallowed once, then exhaled slowly. "I know."

The call ended.

Lex leaned back, staring at the empty space where the paintings had been.

He hadn't planned for this.

Hadn't planned for any of this.

But for the first time in a long time—he didn't mind.