I locked eyes with Vivian, who was now standing in the back with Olivia and Dorothy—the very two who’d trampled all over her just earlier. How shameless could she be?
My mind drifted to what Vivian had whispered back in the washroom.
“Guess what? Anthony painted Olivia. That’s why she flew into a rage and rejected his proposal.”
“Wait, why would she reject him just for that?”
“Because it wasn’t just any painting—it was a nude. A very intimate one.”
She had called it a secret… but whatever. It’s come to this—might as well spill it all.
I turned calmly toward Lady Margaret, just as Anthony rose, still full of himself, and asked,
“If these paintings were made without the subject’s consent… can they still be considered true art?”
Margaret’s expression stiffened slightly—especially at the words
“without consent.”
I narrowed my eyes at Anthony, then spoke in a low voice only he could hear:
“You’re a degenerate, aren’t you?”
So that was it… It wasn’t “realistic figure painting,” it was voyeurism disguised as art. A so-called artist of the “flesh path” hiding behind canvas and brush…
Vivian had told me as much.
I’d originally thought to use that secret as leverage later—but here I was, putting it to use on the spot.
✵
✵
✵
Eric leaned in, grabbing my arm, murmuring under his breath.
“Can you take responsibility for what you just said?”
“I don’t know about responsibility, but we’re
not
paying him a single spirit stone in damages. Maybe Lady Margaret, but
not
that pervert.”
Eric frowned.
“You said you didn’t care about justice.”
He had a point.
I never did care for moral crusades. Just moments ago, I’d planned to de-escalate the situation quietly.
But this… this was personal. That scumbag tried to extort spirit stones from
my
Dao companion?
I glared at Anthony.
And then he roared louder than he had when insulting me earlier.
“D-Do you have proof?! W-Who told you that?! Who?!”
Without thinking, I glanced toward Olivia, Dorothy… and Vivian. Olivia met my eyes, her face pale as snow.
As annoying as she is…
I couldn’t expose her.
Olivia, after all, was an unmarried noble daughter. As much as I disliked her, ruining her name wasn’t something I’d stoop to.
I bit my lip.
“There, see?! No proof! N-None at all! Just trying to justify your poor taste, is that it?! A-And anyway, this is
art
! What does art need with morality?! C-Consent?! If I use a noble lady as a model, that should be an
honor
for her clan! So why should I—why should I need
consent
?!”
My silence only emboldened Anthony, who now ranted freely. His logic unraveled fast, trailing into madness.
What do you mean, “why need consent”? Do you even hear yourself? That’s not an argument—that’s filth.
I scanned the salon, noting the room had split evenly.
Some noblewomen stared at him with scorn, fully grasping how depraved his words were. Others, however, wore a look that said,
“Well… there’s no proof, is there? Maybe she’s bluffing.”
Not a single one, though, stepped forward. None of them were willing to stain their hands for our sake—just like Olivia, who stood there trembling, knowing this was
her
scandal.
Eric reached for the dagger still embedded in the slashed canvas—not to destroy art this time, but with every intention of slitting the so-called artist’s mouth in two.
Right… I forgot. He’s the type who doesn’t shy from doling out justice himself.
Honestly, I hadn’t planned on stopping Eric, but thinking of the duke clan’s honor, I reluctantly stepped in front of him and blocked his path.
“Let’s not go too far… please…”
Just as I murmured that, a voice broke the silence—Alexia, pale as a ghost, finally spoke.
“You said the original creator should be spoken to, didn’t you?”
“…?”
She glanced between Eric and Margaret, then turned her haggard face toward Anthony. The man, who had just been spouting nonsense like a rabid spirit beast, now stared at her like a docile puppy.
And then—
Alexia raised her hand high, and with a deafening
CRACK
, landed a slap across Anthony’s face.
The sound echoed like a wet blanket being slammed against a stone slab. Anthony crumpled to the floor like a deflated qi orb. When he lifted his head, the imprint on his cheek was already turning crimson.
“A-Alexia…!”
She hit him so hard, I swear his cultivation level might’ve dropped half a realm.
I stood frozen, dumbstruck by the impact.
“……?”
Eric, too, looked like his meridians had locked up in shock.
“You want consent, huh? Talking about
art
? Please. You were more tolerable when you were just a third-rate trash cultivator pretending to be a painter.”
Alexia muttered some cryptic words, then turned and walked straight toward me.
Oh no—is she coming for me next?! She’s terrifying!
I instinctively shrunk behind Eric like a turtle pulling into its shell. But Alexia reached out a hand to me and said gently:
“I’m Alex. Alexia. Similar name, right? Thanks for recognizing my work. That painting really is mine.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
…Whoa…
Alex.
The name my steward had mentioned—the one whose style had begun to resemble Anthony’s in recent times…
It was her all along… No wonder her paintings carried real weight…
And apparently, so did her punches.
Hesitantly, I reached out and took her hand. Alexia gave me a radiant smile.
She’s smiling… after planting that man into the floor…
I swallowed hard.
“You’ve got a sharp eye. You’re lucky to have a good wife, Young Lord Eric d’Orléans.”
Alexia extended her hand toward Eric. But he, wearing a sour expression, firmly refused the gesture.
“Apologies. I already belong to someone.”
✵
✵
✵
What followed was a whirlwind of developments.
It was as if everything had been prepared in advance. Without breaking a sweat, Lady Margaret summoned an appraiser.
The cultivator appraiser immediately began a meticulous comparison of Anthony’s and Alex’s qi-infused brushwork. He pointed out that the shift in artistic energy aligned with the period when Alex—once the vanguard of the New Flesh School—suddenly vanished from the scene, and Anthony’s style began to mysteriously evolve.
He then laid out the paintings side by side and gave his final judgment: the works after that point bore the unmistakable imprint of a single soul’s cultivation—Alex’s.
All this, spoken aloud in front of Anthony, who was sitting in the front row, nose bleeding profusely.
He tried to raise his hand and protest a few times, but each time, Eric pressed his arm down.
With force.
“…Don’t move. Unless you
want
to vanish without a trace the moment you step outside this salon.”
Ever since we kidnapped Priest Andrea, I’ve had this thought:
That kind of line… really sounds more like something
I
would say. How did Eric end up taking over my role?
“Y-Young Lord! If Duke Orléans finds out about this, he’ll surely back me—he’ll—”
“Oh, will he? Perhaps. He might act quickly to liquidate some paintings, but back you?”
Eric snorted. Of course. The Duke was the very embodiment of “severing ties.” Just look at how swiftly he cut off Helena, the woman he was once planning to marry.
In any case, Alexia presented more than enough evidence to prove she was, in fact, the mysterious artist known as Alex. She could identify every minute detail of her own paintings even while blindfolded, and the true finishing blow came when the steward from the salon returned—with a collection of unpublished works hidden in a subterranean atelier just twenty minutes from the venue.
Each of those paintings bore Anthony’s signature at the bottom.
So the hidden studio was nearby all along…?
A collector finally asked, “But if you’re Alex, why did you paint under Anthony’s name?”
With a somber expression, Alexia replied, “My clan disapproved of me creating such… unrefined art. For an unmarried noblewoman to paint such figures…”
Her story, from there, was all too familiar.
Once her family discovered she was the artist behind the provocative, visceral works of the
Flesh Path
, they sought to marry her off to any eligible cultivator who would take her.
That’s when Anthony approached her—having learned her true identity.
He proposed they marry, and she would continue painting while he claimed authorship. The profits, he claimed, would be theirs to share.
Truly a scoundrel in every respect…
It’s often the case—if someone’s twisted in one way, they’re likely rotten through and through.
Like the Duke of Orléans… that scum.
Yet in the end, seeing Anthony show not a speck of remorse—not even a sliver of shame—Alexia decided to bring him down herself.
“You people just don’t understand
true
art!”
Even then, Anthony refused to admit that he’d stolen her creations—or that he’d painted real people without consent. Instead, he shouted about sending a formal protest to Alexia’s clan and stormed out of the salon.
Well, more like scurried off. For all his bluster, he looked pale and shaken.
But no sooner had he disappeared than Margaret raised her voice so all in the salon could hear:
“Dispose of every painting I purchased from him. Sell them off—cheap.”
And with that, she had the attendants begin taking down the canvases. Some of them she handed out freely to nearby nobles like they were scraps. Even if it meant taking a loss, she was determined to drag Anthony’s market value straight into the mud.
Then Margaret turned to me with a polite smile, inclining her head slightly.
“Now that I’ve made my move, the rest of the noble clans will follow suit. They’ll all dump his paintings soon enough. He won’t even have time to draft his so-called letters of protest.”
So this… this is the power of wealth…
As I watched her with wide eyes, I felt a new kind of reverence bloom in my heart—for the formidable force that was Lady Margaret, and for the sheer authority coin could command.
Chapter 73