Blooming Rose

The latest version of Eagle Rests on the Tree had been snatched up by a powerful businessman from the capital for a jaw-dropping eight million.

John was left wide-eyed and speechless.

To think that something he had drawn so casually was worth such an obscene amount of money—it was an intoxicating thought. He wondered just how much that old Taoist priest had pocketed for the original piece.

For the first time, John found himself believing he might actually be a once-in-a-lifetime talent in both painting and calligraphy.

Just when the crowd thought the auction had come to its close, the host's voice cut through the air, smooth and sultry. "Hold on, folks, don't rush off just yet. We've got a special surprise for you tonight."

A surprise?

What could possibly top the new version of Eagle Rests on the Tree?

Curiosity rippled through the crowd, like a current of electric anticipation.

The hostess, with her sultry stride, exited the stage, her hips swaying enticingly. And then, a man appeared.

The atmosphere shifted.

The room buzzed, voices murmuring in recognition.

It was Maxwell—the elusive, enigmatic owner of the prestigious Oriental Auction House.

In his hands, he cradled something wrapped in red silk. The crowd's eyes locked onto him, their intrigue mounting.

What could possibly be so precious that even Maxwell, a man accustomed to fortune and fame, looked almost reverent as he presented it?

The host smiled slyly. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is another stunning piece from the mysterious Master of Clouds. And trust me, it is unlike anything you've seen before."

A ripple of gasps passed through the guests.

So, Eagle Rests on the Tree wasn't the only masterpiece the reclusive artist had conjured?

The bidders who had just been outbid by the businessman felt their excitement reignite.

Maxwell's eyes gleamed with intensity. He stepped forward, and with a graceful flourish, he revealed the painting.

The room held its breath.

Boom!

A collective shudder passed through the audience.

There it was.

A single rose, captured in exquisite detail—a soft pink bud in the early stages of bloom.

But it wasn't the meticulous technique or the delicate shading that took their breath away.

It was the impossible: the painting seemed to pulse with life.

As the guests stared at the flower, something strange happened.

The rose began to move. To grow.

It was no longer just a static image—it became something alive, something real.

Within ten seconds, the bud had blossomed fully, sensually unfurling as if it were made of flesh, not paper. The petals seemed to glisten, the colors rippling with unnatural intensity.

The visual impact was staggering.

It was a haunting sensation, as though time itself had warped. The lifeless image now seemed to breathe with a strange, almost erotic vitality.

The crowd collectively held their breath. It was as though the very air had thickened, and everyone's gaze was locked on the rose, unwilling to look away, but unable to fully comprehend what they were witnessing.

No one had ever seen anything like this. There were artists whose works played with illusions—like the famous one where an old crone transformed into a young woman when viewed upside down.

But this… this was something far more powerful. The rose wasn't just alive—it was pulsing, sensual, growing right before their eyes. It was as though the painting had become a living, breathing entity.

In just ten seconds, they experienced the rose's journey from bud to bloom, the tender unfolding of beauty and life—a miracle that made their skin tingle with awe and something darker, more primal.

Even now, before Master of Clouds' inevitable death, the value of this painting would surely skyrocket into the hundreds of millions, if not billions.

It was a work of madness—of genius.

Maxwell's voice broke the silence. "This piece is called Blooming Rose."

The room had barely absorbed his words before the wealthy businessman who had secured Eagle Rests on the Tree leapt to his feet. His voice, low and commanding, cut through the room.

"There's no need for formal bidding. I'll pay twenty million for it," he declared.

Twenty million!

Gasps echoed around the room. He didn't even bother with the customary starting bid. He was simply willing to throw down twenty million on the spot.

Then another tycoon stood, his voice calm but insistent. "I'll pay thirty million."

Thirty million!

The room was alive with shock and disbelief. These men were throwing down tens of millions as if the price meant nothing.

But to them, it didn't.

Blooming Rose was an entirely different creature. It was a masterpiece in a league of its own. Twenty million wasn't a bid—it was the opening offer.

Within moments, the price shot up to eighty million, with whispers of it potentially reaching over a hundred million.

At this point, only the wealthiest had a chance to play in this game. The average art enthusiast, in awe of the painting's sheer power, could only watch, powerless.

Maxwell raised his hands, a gesture for silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please," he said, his voice taking on a somber tone. "This painting is not for sale. It's here only to be displayed."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

The wealthy businessmen didn't take kindly to this.

"Mr. Remar, we're loyal patrons!" one shouted. "This isn't fair!"

Maxwell offered an apologetic smile, but it was tinged with something else—regret, maybe, or resignation.

"This isn't our decision," he explained. "This is Master of Clouds' wish."

The crowd fell silent. The rumors began to circulate—the painting had been handed over with one condition: it was not for sale.

Maxwell had wanted to sell it, no doubt, but when the Duke of Southern River delivered the painting, he made one thing clear: it was not to be sold.

And Maxwell had no choice but to obey.

But then, to everyone's surprise, Maxwell turned toward Alice.

"Miss Moon, would you please join us on stage?" he asked, his voice respectful but laced with something more—a subtle pressure.

Alice's heart raced. "Me?"

John urged her with a gentle nudge, his voice firm. "Yes, Alice. He's calling for you. Go on."

She hesitated for a moment, confusion clouding her thoughts, but when she met Maxwell's eyes, she realized there was no turning back.

With a graceful step, she walked up to the stage, her eyes wide with confusion, her body betraying a nervous energy.

Everyone in the crowd looked on, their eyes shifting between Alice and the painting. The air was thick, suffused with anticipation and the faintest hint of something more—something charged.

Maxwell bowed his head, his voice a smooth, respectful murmur. "Miss Moon, Blooming Rose was painted specifically for you by Master of Clouds. He entrusted it to me, and now, I give it to you."

He presented the painting to her, the masterpiece now hers to claim.