That kindly Mr. Harris now also revealed a hint of joy, clearly feeling that his nephew already had victory in hand.

Time flew by quickly. William Harris exhaled, finally put down his brush, and said, “Madam, it’s done.”

Ethan carefully carried the painting over for the madam to see. The madam said, “It’s well done.”

William Harris, with a hint of pride, said, “Of all the famous mountains under heaven, Mount Heng is the greatest. Though this Yifeng painting is an imitation, it fits the theme perfectly.”

The madam nodded, her gaze falling again on Adam Sullivan. She saw that Adam Sullivan still hadn’t started, his brows tightly furrowed. “Time is almost up.”

Adam Sullivan nodded and smiled, “It’ll be ready in a moment.” With a flick of his wrist, he casually sketched a few strokes on the paper and said, “It’s done. Please, madam, have a look.”

Ethan went to Adam Sullivan’s desk to fetch the painting. Adam Sullivan, taking advantage of the moment, pinched her hand when no one was looking. Ethan panicked, stumbled, and blushing furiously, presented the painting to the madam.

To finish with just a few casual strokes—everyone in the pavilion looked at Adam Sullivan with odd expressions, as if they were all watching a monkey at the zoo.

The madam didn’t like Adam Sullivan either: “This person doesn’t look as upright as William; he always seems a bit unruly. When William paints, he has a focused air. But this Adam Sullivan is so careless—could it be that he knows he can’t outdo William and is just scribbling a few lines to get it over with?”

William Harris also felt certain of victory, glancing at Adam Sullivan with disdain. “Brother Sullivan, you’re so carefree—can you really paint a great mountain with just a few strokes?”

Adam Sullivan smiled reservedly, his eyes full of meaning. “Brother Harris, just wait and see.”

Chapter 7: What Brother Gives Is Not a Gift

The hazy moonlight reflected on the shimmering water, a gentle breeze drifting by. On this rare festive moonlit night, Henry Clark was in a terrible mood.

Adam Sullivan was his recommendation, his chosen representative. At first, Henry Clark had a little confidence in him, but seeing him hand in his work after a few careless strokes—wow, not only careless but also trying to act cool.

“This guy is even thicker-skinned than I am, and he can still smile at a time like this.” Henry Clark shook his fan’s ribs, itching to go over and give Adam Sullivan a beating. “It’s over. Looks like William Harris is sure to win the first round.”

But when Ethan placed the painting before the madam, the madam let out a surprised “hmm,” hesitantly glancing at Adam Sullivan, as if she was having a hard time making a decision.

Henry Clark craned his neck to look. Sure enough, Adam Sullivan’s painting was simple. Just a few rough strokes, but the brilliance was in those strokes’ spirit: one line outlined the silhouette of a towering peak, and a few more circled clouds at the mountain’s base.

“Clouds at the foot of the mountain—just how tall must this mountain be?” Henry Clark cheered, his expression brightening. “This mountain is taller than Mount Heng. If Mount Heng’s peak can reach the clouds, that’s already impressive. Haha… Mother, this time Adam Sullivan wins.”

In his heart, Henry Clark thought, “Good kid, so that’s your trick. Clever—though still a bit worse than me.”

The madam’s face darkened a little. She didn’t like Adam Sullivan as much as William Harris, but this time, Adam Sullivan had indeed won. She could only say, “Adam Sullivan wins.”

Adam Sullivan put on a reserved air. “Madam, your favor is overwhelming; I am truly humbled.” But inside, he was extremely pleased.

William Harris couldn’t believe it and went over to look at the painting, immediately losing all color, his face turning even paler.

But he had nothing to say about his loss. Mount Heng was indeed majestic, but Adam Sullivan had taken an unconventional approach, drawing clouds at the mountain’s base. If the clouds were at the foot, just imagine how tall the mountain must be—ten Mount Hengs couldn’t compare.

Ethan didn’t care whose painting was better; she was just happy that Adam Sullivan had won.

Miss Clark and the man beside her also went to look at the painting. The man snorted coldly, clearly unimpressed. Miss Clark, on the other hand, showed a hint of appreciation—though only a hint.

“Ahem… First round, Adam Sullivan wins.” Mr. Harris announced the result with a less-than-pleasant expression, then continued, “The second round is poetry. Today is madam’s birthday, so the theme is birthday blessings.”

William Harris, eager to redeem himself, quickly recited: “May your fortune be as vast as the Eastern Sea, your days as enduring as the southern pines. Quickly gather jade blossoms to celebrate your birthday, as celestial music circles your beauty.”

He spoke so quickly that he finished the poem in one go.

The madam immediately smiled, “Good.” That “good” was naturally praise, and also encouragement for William Harris.

Cheating! There’s no justice. Adam Sullivan was inwardly furious. This scholar could compose poetry at the drop of a hat—even Cao Zhi couldn’t do that. But he blurted it out so easily; clearly, he already knew the topic—someone had leaked it.

Looks like scholars are still in high demand these days. State-certified is just different. The madam looked at William Harris with such passion.

“Looks like I’ll have to bring out my trump card.” Adam Sullivan felt he’d been treated unfairly, his pride wounded. Forcing a smile, he calmly said, “This woman is not human…”

As soon as Adam Sullivan finished speaking, he sensed a heavy murderous aura filling the pavilion—a strange feeling.

The madam’s face could no longer hold its composure; she scowled and absentmindedly reached for some pastries. Henry Clark was dumbfounded, Ethan stared wide-eyed in shock. William Harris and Mr. Harris both wore faint sneers. Even the always-calm Miss Clark couldn’t help but furrow her brows.