Chapter 9: The Veil of Maya (9)

Wen Mingwei had been settled in Xijing for eight years. The number of guests qualified to pay him a visit was minimal, and not a single person in history had ever dared to act bossy or call him by his given name right to his face.

Even Zheng He, the Grand Marshal of the Alliance, would have to smile and address him amiably as "Mingwei."

The moment Tan Zhao finished speaking, a cold sweat broke out on the butler’s forehead. Yet, he dared not offend this young master. He bowed his head and gestured for him to enter, saying, "Mingwei is upstairs reading. We didn't expect you so early. Please wait in the living room for a couple of minutes—"

The butler was a middle-aged man with a kind face and a level of enthusiasm that was just right. Tan Zhao gave him a strange look: "Do you all call him 'Mingwei'?"

The secretary surnamed Gu at the shooting range had called him that too.

The butler smiled upon hearing this and said, "Yes, Mingwei likes it. It feels more intimate that way..."

"Hmph, he’s got a good temper, then."

Tan Zhao offered this critique, took off the light-tinted sunglasses that served only as a fashion accessory rather than a sunblock, and sat down on the living room sofa. "Tell him to come down quickly."

The butler wiped away his cold sweat: "...Very well."

Originally, Tan Zhao had assumed the place where Wen Mingwei invited him for dinner would be a restaurant.

To make things difficult for him and show that he was a hard man to please, he had skillfully criticized every high-end restaurant in Xijing, claiming that "not a single one of them tastes good."

Wen Mingwei, however, had said, "I’ve already sent you the menu. Naturally, we are eating at my place."

They had been on the phone at the time, and a thought had stirred in Tan Zhao’s mind. Recalling some classic dating techniques, such as "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," he couldn't help but speculate: "Are you going to cook for me yourself?"

Tan Zhao had asked seriously, and Wen Mingwei had burst into laughter upon hearing it: "Do I look like the type who knows how to cook?"

"..."

Tan Zhao was left speechless. *He’s still laughing,* he thought. *At a time like this, shouldn't he say, "Although I don't know how, I'm willing to learn for you"? He doesn't even know how to earn points.*

Recalling last night’s call, Tan Zhao looked around the living room with a nonchalant gaze.

Wen Mingwei’s aesthetic seemed to be classical. The room was dominated by brown tones, with elegant, grand furniture and exquisite carvings. It was noble and substantial in its beauty, with almost no traces of modern technology.

Retro was a trend these days, as high-tech was no longer novel. In every industry, scarcity made things valuable, and "tech-life" had become cheap.

This was especially true in high society; the more retro something was, the more it reflected one's status. The logic was the same as how restaurants with robotic chefs were everywhere, yet high-end dining insisted on human service—serving dishes slowly and deliberately, as if only this could reflect the chef’s dedication, unlike those emotionless AIs.

Even electronic devices, represented by smartphones, had seen a trend toward returning to tradition after a series of updates involving thinning, folding screens, miniaturization, semi-transparency, and holographic projection.

Tan Zhao didn't know which category Wen Mingwei fell into. Did he simply like the classical style? Or was he intentionally chasing the retro trend? Or perhaps neither—it didn't matter to him, and he just left it all for the butler to handle?

Just as he was thinking this, a figure appeared on the stairs. Wen Mingwei had finally come down.

Tan Zhao looked up and saw that his long hair was tied up loosely. A pair of unfamiliar glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. His skin was still deathly pale, yet his appearance had not diminished, and he walked toward him with a smile in his eyes.

"Why did you come so early?" Wen Mingwei asked. "Didn't we agree on dinner at six-thirty?"

"..."

Tan Zhao choked, dissatisfied with his reaction: "Are you complaining that I came too early?"

"How could I? I was just worried that the food wouldn't be ready and you’d be impatient waiting."

Wen Mingwei sat down next to Tan Zhao. Because his vision wasn't great today and he wasn't used to wearing glasses, he seemed to have trouble seeing, his eyelids half-lowered, his gaze hazy yet focused.

"Are those prescription glasses?" Tan Zhao asked. "I didn't notice you were nearsighted at the shooting range before."

Wen Mingwei said, "It's temporary. My eyes haven't been feeling very well these past two days."

Tan Zhao didn't understand what kind of symptom this was, but before he could think, Wen Mingwei suddenly leaned toward him. Just like he had in the car, he took the liberty of resting his chin on Tan Zhao’s shoulder, clinging to him without any pretense.

"Tan Zhao, I missed you."

"…Cheesy."

Tan Zhao used a finger to push his face away: "How can you miss me every single day? Can't you think about something serious?"

"Is missing you not considered serious?" Wen Mingwei laughed and leaned closer to Tan Zhao again.

They were sitting so close that their bodies were almost touching. Even without considering the appropriateness of a suitor and the one being pursued, most couples weren't this sticky.

Tan Zhao put on a stern face: "Wen Mingwei, can you exercise a little restraint?"

"But it's been seventy hours and twenty-five minutes since we last saw each other."

Wen Mingwei stated the exact figure. Tan Zhao was taken aback and subconsciously checked his watch: 5:55 PM. What time did they part ways last time?

In the moment he was distracted, Wen Mingwei had already leaned against his lips. The cold spectacle frames brushed against his skin briefly before pulling away—Wen Mingwei had taken off his glasses. His eyes instantly became even hazier, as if he had to be close enough to kiss to see his face clearly. Yet, the corners of his lips held a smile, making it difficult to tell if he was teasing on purpose or if he simply couldn't control his desire to kiss him.

Tan Zhao didn't believe he could be teased; in any case, he was the one in control. He gripped the back of the other man's neck and pulled him away forcefully: "Wen Mingwei, your performance score is still zero so far. Did you know that?"

"...I haven't gained any points?"

Wen Mingwei was surprised. Tan Zhao huffed: "Have you done anything that deserves extra points? Inviting me to dinner only to have the chef cook it, hanging up first most of the time during our calls, me being the one to send the last message—I'm already being merciful by not giving you a negative score."

"..."

Wen Mingwei couldn't help but laugh, the neck held in Tan Zhao’s hand trembling slightly. The current generated by that vibration traveled straight from his palm to his arm. Tan Zhao uncomfortably retracted his hand and looked away: "Your hair is a mess."

"Is it?" Wen Mingwei reached up to touch his hair tie and re-tied his hair. Tan Zhao had already stood up and walked away, saying he wanted to go upstairs to have a look.

"Upstairs are my study and bedroom." Wen Mingwei put on his glasses to accompany him, stepping up the carpeted stairs to the study door.

He hadn't closed the study door when he came down earlier, so Tan Zhao entered like a tourist visiting a scenic spot. He looked left and right, then suddenly stopped in front of a bookshelf and commented: "Why is it all just leisure reading?"

Wen Mingwei asked humbly, "What kind of books would not be considered 'leisure'?"

Tan Zhao said, "Financial weeklies, books on finance, the success stories of so-and-so celebrities."

"..." Wen Mingwei laughed out loud. "You like reading those?"

"I don't like them at all; they’re all second-hand waste," Tan Zhao said. "Didn't you say your company was about to go bankrupt? I thought you’d be researching."

"I don't have that talent," Wen Mingwei said earnestly. "Studying you is enough; nothing else is important."

Tan Zhao: "..."

The young master had already developed a resistance to sweet talk. He ignored him, looked away from the bookshelf as if nothing had happened, and glanced to the side. Suddenly, he saw a painting hanging on the wall.

That oil painting titled *The Veil of Maya*.

Tan Zhao walked up to the painting and stared at it, lost in thought for a moment.

The people in the painting, draped in chains, with terrified faces under the firelight, and the suffocating veil draped from the heavens that left no escape—everything about it felt eerie.

Tan Zhao couldn't help but frown, turning back to ask: "Is this some new religious style? Why does it have such a cult-like vibe?"

"A cult?" Wen Mingwei found this evaluation quite interesting. "In your opinion, what is the difference between a cult and a non-cult?"

Tan Zhao didn't usually pay attention to religion and wasn't sure if there were any so-called cults left in the Alliance, so he answered based on impressions from movies and television: "Fraud?"

—Fabricating a false god or some cultural concept, brainwashing a group of people, and directly swindling money or indirectly profiting through psychological control. In short, the essence of a cult was fraud.

Wen Mingwei did not comment on his answer; he only smiled.

Tan Zhao glanced at him: "Am I wrong?"

"You're right," Wen Mingwei said, "I'm just a bit sensitive to the word 'fraud'."

He claimed to be "sensitive," but his expression hadn't changed at all. That smile that seemed to permanently hang on his lips didn't fade by even half. Tan Zhao subconsciously asked: "Why?"

"Because," Wen Mingwei walked to his side, his expression turning solemn for a fleeting moment, and said into his ear in the tone of a confession to a priest, "I am a fraudster."

"..."

Tan Zhao was stunned for a moment, but Wen Mingwei had already pulled away.

"Let's go, dinner is almost ready."

He walked out of the study and called for Tan Zhao to go downstairs. That nonsensical statement from just a moment ago seemed to be nothing more than an unfunny joke, with no further explanation.

**

This dinner passed without waves, and it wasn't long before it reached its end.

Because Tan Zhao was allergic to alcohol, he didn't touch a single drop, and the atmosphere during the meal was inevitably a bit lacking. Wen Mingwei sighed, not bothering to hide it: "It's a pity I can't get you drunk and take advantage of the situation."

"...What do you want to happen?"

"What do you think?"

Wen Mingwei rested his chin on one hand and smiled at him: "You came to my house as a guest; you don't intend to just leave after dinner, do you?"

"I can stay and chat with you for a while."

Tan Zhao acted as if he didn't understand Wen Mingwei’s hint. His expression was dignified and serious, carrying a deliberate air of "I am naturally ascetic." He finished the non-alcoholic drink specially prepared for him, picked up his napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth, and emphasized: "Other than chatting, nothing else is going to happen."

Wen Mingwei held back a laugh, putting on a melancholic expression: "Are you really not interested in me at all, Tan Zhao?"

"..."

Tan Zhao hadn't been drinking, but Wen Mingwei had. Before the meal, his hair had been tied back with a band, but during the course of drinking, that band had disappeared somehow. His long hair cascaded behind him like a waterfall, and a portion slid down his shoulder as he lowered his head, obscuring his tipsy, flushed face.

Tan Zhao watched as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and the temple of his glasses was inadvertently knocked askew.

Wen Mingwei wasn't aware of it, but he suddenly stood up and moved to Tan Zhao’s side—Tan Zhao was sitting, and he leaned down from above, his long hair pouring down with the movement, falling across Tan Zhao’s shoulders.

In that instant, he looked like he was asking for a kiss.

Even the most ascetic person would find it hard to resist.

Tan Zhao’s fingers tightened unconsciously on the edge of the table.

Wen Mingwei’s purpose, however, went far beyond a single kiss: "What if I don't ask you to take responsibility? Can you stay the night?"