Exaggerating the fact

Mr. Johnson spoke with a wide, satisfied grin on his face.

Though he was not a vain man by nature, the envy shining in the eyes of those around him stirred a quiet pride within. Acquiring a genuine painting by the famed Master of Clouds had taken a great deal of time, effort, and resources.

But as he looked at the captivated faces before him, he felt it had all been worth it.

"This piece is titled Eagle Rests on the Tree. Tell me, what are your thoughts upon viewing it?" he asked with a smile that betrayed his anticipation.

Someone eagerly responded, "This painting showcases the simplified elegance typical of Master of Clouds' work. Its features are sharp and distinct. The composition is not overly intricate, yet it's instantly clear—that is an eagle, and that is a tree."

Mr. Johnson nodded in approval. "Most painters capture only the outer form, but fail to imbue their work with spirit. Master of Clouds, however, breathes both body and soul into his paintings. That's why common artists can never hope to imitate his work convincingly."

The crowd nodded in agreement.

Others chimed in with their own observations, each trying to contribute some unique insight. Then, after a moment of contemplation, Roe stepped forward and spoke.

"I believe this painting reveals something deeper—a reflection of Master of Clouds' inner state," he said thoughtfully.

"Oh?" Mr. Johnson raised a brow with interest. "And what makes you say that?"

The room quieted. Everyone leaned in.

Clearing his throat, Roe began to expound, his tone deliberate and confident.

"Observe the tree. Though loosely sketched, it carries an air of melancholy, a silhouette that symbolizes hardship or entrapment—perhaps the master's present circumstances."

"And now the eagle," he continued, pointing with subtle flair. "At first glance, it appears to be resting. But look closer—its wings are not folded serenely. There's a tension in the posture. It's perched not by choice, but by necessity."

"What eagle does not long to soar across the sky? And yet here it is, grounded atop a barren tree. That... is helplessness."

He gestured now toward a vivid detail.

"But the most striking element—the red mark on the eagle's head. It contrasts sharply with the muted grey tones of the entire composition."

"What does it signify?"

There was a pause. His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper.

"It means this eagle—this spirit—is not resigned. There is defiance in that red. A yearning. It longs to fly once more, to reclaim the boundless sky."

"In short, this painting mirrors a moment in Master of Clouds' life when he was brought low—grounded against his will—but still possessed the fire to rise again."

As Roe finished, silence lingered in the room before a wave of applause broke out.

What a stunning interpretation.

"A mind reader of Master of Clouds!" someone whispered in awe.

Mr. Johnson laughed heartily and clapped as well. "If Master of Clouds were here to hear your analysis, he would surely make you his confidant!"

He then turned toward Wade with a grin. "Wade, your son surpasses you!"

Wade puffed up with pride. "Haha! I told you he had a bright future. I've taught him about calligraphy and painting since he was a boy. All those lessons have finally borne fruit!"

There was not a trace of modesty in his tone.

The crowd continued to applaud enthusiastically. Even John, who had quietly watched the entire scene unfold, found himself smiling and clapping along.

I never even thought about all that when I painted it myself, he mused. But Roe managed to draw all of that out. What a genius.

Encouraged by the admiration of those around him, Roe's lips curled into a self-satisfied smile.

Then, his eyes drifted toward Alice.

"Miss Moon, what do you think of the painting?" he asked suddenly.

There was a sharpness in his tone.

From the moment she entered the room, Roe had taken issue with her presence. To him, a woman like her had no place in such a gathering. In his eyes, she was unworthy—someone who could never understand the finer nuances of art.

He posed the question not out of curiosity, but in the hope of humiliating her.

All eyes turned to Alice.

Mr. Johnson offered her a gentle smile. "Don't feel pressured, Miss Moon. A thousand viewers may each see a thousand different meanings in a painting. There's no right or wrong—just an exchange of impressions."

Alice nodded calmly. "As a devoted admirer of Master of Clouds, I was thrilled to see this painting tonight. It certainly bears his signature style…"

Roe rolled his eyes and interrupted with a sneer, "Skip the formalities and get to the point. The style's already been discussed. Don't repeat what others have said."

"Roe, be patient. Let her speak," Mr. Johnson intervened, his tone more indulgent than chastising. He had taken a liking to Roe after his earlier performance and was lenient despite the rudeness.

Though Alice frowned at the interruption, she pressed on.

"Overall, this painting is indeed exquisite," she said. "However... I believe the red mark is a flaw."

A hush fell over the room.

Alice had spoken honestly. That vivid red blemish had struck her as odd from the beginning. It clashed with the harmony of the composition—an element that didn't quite belong.

She couldn't help but wonder: Why would Master of Clouds add such a jarring detail to an otherwise perfect piece? It seemed uncharacteristic of him.

John, listening nearby, couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping.

Alice understands me so well.

The truth was, the red mark wasn't part of the painting at all. It was the accidental stain of berry juice he'd spilled while snacking during the process.

But to everyone else, her critique was blasphemous.

Wade immediately barked, "Nonsense! There are no mistakes in Master of Clouds' work. Every detail has meaning!"

The others murmured their disapproval. Their reverence for the artist was absolute. To suggest even a flaw was to question a divine truth.

Roe scoffed. "I warned you. A woman like this knows nothing of art. Her presence here only ruins the mood."

Mr. Johnson's face darkened.

He had encouraged open discussion, yes—but he had not expected someone to criticize the painting. Especially not a woman like her, in his opinion. Her words had tainted the reverent atmosphere. His warmth toward her vanished.

Alice felt the shift instantly. The subtle coldness. The sidelong glances. The unspoken judgment.

So this was what passed for an 'exchange of opinions'? she thought bitterly. A room full of sycophants pretending to seek truth, but only craving validation.

She regretted coming. She shouldn't have bothered.

Turning to leave, she had barely taken a step when John gently grabbed her wrist.

"Wait a moment," he said quietly.

John was not one to tolerate being wronged—especially not when it came to someone he cared about. These people had mocked and insulted Alice. If he left now, it would be like admitting defeat.

He had been considering revealing his identity as Master of Clouds to defend her.

But what happened next made him reconsider.