Chapter 310
[Clarification Announcement Regarding Online Discussion of "the Rising Stars Youth Art Awards"]
[Following a technical investigation by our platform, we have detected coordinated abnormal behavior from a large number of accounts posting highly similar content under hashtags such as #ChildProdigyDavidWinsGoldAward. This behavior has severely damaged the healthy ecosystem of our community and constitutes suspected manipulation of public opinion against other users.
To maintain community order, we have permanently banned 873 violating accounts, including "Dandelion in the Wind," "Cat Who Loves Fish," and others.
The internet is not a lawless place. We call on all users to engage in rational discussion and join us in resisting online manipulation and malicious marketing tactics.]
The announcement dropped like a bomb.
The internet exploded.
The celebratory mood that had filled the comment sections just moments ago evaporated instantly.
If anyone still believed David was innocent before, this official statement slapped them across the face hard enough to leave a mark.
Buying awards, buying trending topics, buying fake engagement...
After this whole orchestrated scheme came to light, David's gold medal not only lost all credibility—it became worthless. Worse than worthless.
---
The Russell Group PR department.
The director stared at the announcement, vision going black as he collapsed into his chair.
They were done for.
This wasn't just a PR disaster.
This was a high-speed crash where the car flipped into a ditch, rolled three times, and got captured in full 4K by an official traffic camera.
---
Stanley's office.
K and the other tech team members crowded around Stanley's computer, barely daring to breathe as they watched the backend data scroll across the screen.
The cyber warfare they'd just witnessed felt like watching a fighter jet take on a paper airplane.
The other side's firewall, their anti-tracking systems—Stanley tore through them like tissue paper.
A few keystrokes, and he'd pinpointed every bot account at its source, bundled the evidence of their coordinated behavior, and then... in a way none of them could fully comprehend... "persuaded" the platform to release that damning statement during prime time.
"Stanley," K swallowed hard, voice tentative. "How did you get the platform to cooperate so fast?"
Stanley leaned back in his chair, turning his tablet idly in his hand.
"I simply helped them patch a system vulnerability they'd been hunting for three months." His tone was casual. "And while I was at it, I sent the patch logs and the bot evidence to their CEO."
K suddenly realized his understanding of "helping out" might have been slightly off.
This wasn't helping.
This was holding a knife to someone's throat while asking politely, "Hey buddy, need a hand?"
---
Sophia's call came through.
"Well done."
It was the first time Sophia had used the word "well done" to describe his work.
Stanley sat up straighter, voice tightening slightly. "Just doing my job."
"James won't let this go." Sophia's voice remained calm. "He'll use more extreme methods to prove that painting is original."
"Let him try." Stanley's response was immediate. "I've already registered encrypted digital backups of the original 'Warm Sun' with copyright centers in over thirty countries. The registered owner is you. Registration date... nine years ago."
Silence on the other end for a few seconds.
"Very good." A hint of amusement crept into Sophia's voice.
Stanley felt his ears warm.
"Soph," he cleared his throat, "do we wait for him to walk into the trap, or..."
"No." Sophia cut him off.
She gazed out the window at the city lights beginning to glow against the evening sky.
"He wants to elevate a forgery into a masterpiece."
"So I'll bring the original back into the light."
Sophia's gaze dropped to the blank sketch paper on her desk, beside a freshly sharpened charcoal pencil.
"Stanley, contact the head of Ark Gallery."
"Tell him River wants to hold an exhibition."
---
Ark Gallery's director—known in the industry as Mr. Smith—was drinking his morning tea when Stanley's call came through.
"What? River wants to hold an exhibition?"
His teacup trembled. Hot tea sloshed over his hand, scalding him, but he didn't even notice.
"Is this for real? Leo, don't mess with an old man!"
On the other end, Stanley was using Owen's identity—"Leo."
"Mr. Smith, our boss never jokes." Stanley's voice was steady. "Venue, security, promotion—we want the best. Budget is unlimited."
Mr. Smith nearly launched himself out of his chair.
River holding an exhibition—if word got out, the entire art world would shake. Ark Gallery would be flooded.
"Absolutely! No problem at all!" Mr. Smith pounded his chest. "Tell River everything's handled! I stake my entire reputation on this—we'll set a new industry standard!"
After hanging up, Mr. Smith still felt like he was dreaming. He looked at his scalded hand and laughed to himself.
The game was changing.
---
On the outskirts of the city, inside a high-ceilinged studio.
Sophia stood before a massive easel.
The air was thick with turpentine and paint. Drop cloths covered the floor, scattered with dozens of worn brushes and squeezed-out paint tubes.
She wore a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, spotted with paint.
She was painting.
Another woman's silhouette, standing in a field of flowers.
But unlike 'Warm Sun,' this painting had a more naive quality, the brushstrokes deliberately rougher, more tentative. In the woman's long hair was pinned a small, slightly crooked yellow daisy.
This was the birthday gift she'd given her mother when she was thirteen.
The original, along with all her early sketches, had burned to ash in that fire.
The fire Raina set.
Sophia laid down the final stroke.
She didn't look at the painting. Just stood still.
These past days, she'd locked herself in here, painting around the clock.
One after another.
Recreating the memories that had been destroyed.
Every brushstroke felt like digging her own bones out of ashes.
It hurt.
But she didn't stop.
She needed everyone to see these paintings as they had been.
In the corner of the studio, a dozen completed works were neatly stacked.
Each one told a story.
Her first time holding a brush, scrawling a lopsided sun on the wall.
Planting the first rosebush in the backyard with her mother.
Her mother sitting by the window, mending her dress with gentle hands.
This was a love letter from a daughter to her mother, years overdue.
She'd already decided on the exhibition's title.
'To My Beloved.'
Her phone rang. Stanley.
"Soph, the paintings are at the warehouse."
"Okay."
"Top-level security. Twenty-four-hour guards, infrared surveillance with zero blind spots." Stanley paused. "You can rest easy."
"Good."
"Mr. Smith released the teaser. Just said it's a River solo exhibition, no specific details."
Stanley opened his laptop and checked the backend data.
The phrase "River holding an exhibition" hit number one on trending in ten minutes flat.
Art forums, social media—everything ignited.
[Am I seeing this right? Once-in-a-lifetime moment! River's actually doing an exhibition!]
[WHERE? WHEN? I'm flying there no matter what!]
[This is the legendary figure everyone talks about but nobody's seen. Their critiques are worth more than gold. Can't believe they're doing a solo show!]
[I'm more curious—who IS 'River'? Male? Female? Old? Young?]
[The timing though... right after that 'Rising Stars Youth Art Awards' mess. You think this is connected?]
[Above comment—good catch. 'River' was the one the Russell Group threatened with legal action. Now instead of laying low, they're holding an exhibition? This is a direct challenge.]
The buzz exceeded everyone's expectations.
Stanley watched the comments flood in, unease creeping in.
"Soph, James's side... it's too quiet."
Way too quiet.
Since the bot scandal, the Russell Group had gone silent. No PR moves. Nothing.