bioinnovel Chapter 47: There will be punishment if you don't draw well!
Chapter 47: There will be punishment if you don't draw well!
That movie line, carrying a strong implication, and the system's frantic, red-alert-like notifications, were like two buckets of ice water poured over Zhang Yan's newly rising enthusiasm.
The air inside the carriage seemed to thicken because of his sudden pause in breathing.
Nie Qingcheng maintained that alluring pose, her fingertips resting on the first button of her shirt, her captivating fox-like eyes observing with great interest every subtle change in his face.
She saw his Adam's apple bob, the suspicious blush rising at the base of his ears, and a fleeting flame of desire in his clear eyes.
She was very satisfied.
This little rascal is finally no longer that blockhead who can't get interested in anything.
Zhang Yan took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the vivid images in his mind, and ignoring the system's still buzzing warnings.
He met Nie Qingcheng's gaze, his voice sounding somewhat hoarse from deliberately suppressing his voice.
"Stop fooling around."
"Go back and draw."
These few simple words, devoid of any romanticism, feel like a promise.
Nie Qingcheng's smile deepened; she knew the fish had taken the bait.
She sat up lazily, re-fastened the belt of her trench coat, and resumed her dignified and elegant posture, as if the enchantress who had almost undressed in the car was just Zhang Yan's illusion.
"OK."
She answered crisply, but the last syllable lingered, like a feather gently tickling Zhang Yan's heart.
……
Genting Manor, third floor.
A floor-to-ceiling window covering an entire wall shattered the magnificent evening glow, letting it stream in without reservation.
This is Nie Qingcheng's private studio.
It's less of a studio and more of a small art collection.
The air was filled with the faint scent of turpentine mixed with high-end oil paints. Inside the temperature- and humidity-controlled cabinets against the wall, various sizes of paintbrushes and top-quality pigments from around the world were on display.
Standing in the center of the studio, Zhang Yan looked at the enormous easel that was almost as tall as two people and felt it was all a bit unreal.
He really wanted to be here, to paint a picture of that woman.
The skill of [Divine Painting] stirred within my mind, and countless inspirations about light and shadow, composition, and brushstrokes bubbled up like boiling water.
He walked to the easel, skillfully laid out a fine linen canvas, and began to mix the paints.
His movements were slow, yet they exuded the composure and professionalism of an expert.
Just then, the studio door was gently pushed open.
Nie Qingcheng walked in.
She was holding several pieces of clothing in her hands.
The first item was an ice-blue silk cheongsam, with hand-embroidered twin lotus flowers extending from the hem to the chest. The high slit design almost reached the top of her thighs, and every inch seemed to be tailor-made for her, tightly wrapping her breathtaking curves.
The second item was a black haute couture evening gown with a backless design and a skirt studded with tiny diamonds that looked like a flowing galaxy under the lights—glamorous, noble, and exuding a queenly aura.
And the last item...
It's a simple men's white shirt.
The shirt looked somewhat familiar; it was the same one Zhang Yan had worn yesterday, and there seemed to be a faint, almost imperceptible wrinkle at the collar.
Carrying the clothes, Nie Qingcheng walked up to Zhang Yan, like a young wife waiting for her husband's opinion, a sly smile playing on her lips.
Which one do you think is better?
Zhang Yan's gaze shifted from the cheongsam that could make one's nose bleed, then swept over the elegant evening gown, and finally settled on the white shirt that belonged to him.
His throat started to feel dry again.
Cheongsams are too alluring, evening gowns are too far removed from reality.
Only this white shirt carries an indescribable sense of belonging and languor, belonging to a private space.
It represents neither temptation nor conquest.
Rather, it is a kind of... possession.
"A shirt, please."
Zhang Yan heard his own voice ring out, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather.
The smile in Nie Qingcheng's eyes exploded like starlight.
She knew he would choose this.
"Okay, wait for me a moment."
Holding her clothes, she turned and walked into the studio's dressing room. Before closing the door, she turned back and gave him a meaningful look.
Zhang Yan stood still, took a deep breath, and tried to calm his somewhat disordered heartbeat.
He refocused his attention on the palette, mixing several pigments with a palette knife to create an extremely delicate flesh-pink color suitable for use as a base for skin.
Time passed, second by second.
"Click".
The locker room door opened.
Zhang Yan subconsciously looked up.
In that instant, he felt his breath being gripped tightly by an invisible hand.
Nie Qingcheng came out.
She really was only wearing that one oversized white shirt that belonged to him.
The soft silk fabric hung loosely on her body, barely covering her mid-thighs. The hem of the shirt peeked out from under her as she moved, outlining an incredibly alluring curve.
Two straight, long legs, as if carved from mutton-fat jade, were exposed to the air without any cover.
She was barefoot, her smooth feet resting on the soft Persian carpet, her ten round and lovely toes slightly curled, tinged with a healthy pink.
"His lower garment has disappeared."
Never before has this word been so vividly and breathtakingly embodied as it is now.
She walked to the velvet chaise lounge by the window and lay down on it in a languid, cat-like posture.
With one hand supporting her head and the other casually resting on her waist, her long, black hair cascaded down her wine-red velvet like a waterfall, creating a striking visual impact.
She slightly raised her chin, and her fox-like eyes, which always had a hooked quality, appeared somewhat hazy in the evening glow.
"Can we begin? My... personal illustrator?"
Zhang Yan's hand holding the paintbrush trembled slightly, uncontrollably.
He felt like he wasn't facing a model.
Instead, they are facing a peerless enchantress who has just awakened and is about to devour people's souls.
He forced himself to look away and refocus on the blank canvas in front of him, picked up the charcoal pencil, and began to sketch the outline.
The first stroke is made.
Very stable.
His skill, 【Divine Painting】, grants him control abilities that surpass human limits.
His heart was pounding, but his hands remained as steady as a rock.
The lines extend across the canvas, precisely capturing light, shadow, and structure.
In the studio, only the scratching sound of charcoal pencils on the canvas could be heard.
The atmosphere was quiet, yet incredibly hot.
Fine beads of sweat gradually appeared on Zhang Yan's forehead.
He dared not look up, relying only on the memory of that fleeting glimpse and his extraordinary painting instincts to construct that perfect body on the canvas.
Time seemed to have passed for a long time, yet it also seemed to have only been a moment.
When he finally sketched out the general outline and the relationship between light and shadow with charcoal, he realized that his back was already soaked with sweat.
He looked up, ready to pick up his paintbrush and begin applying the colors.
Inevitably, their gazes met once again with those of the woman on the chaise longue.
She seemed to be getting a little impatient.
The posture changed, with one leg bent up and the other leg casually extended. The hem of the white shirt was pulled up by this movement, sliding up a large distance, almost to an extremely dangerous edge.
Looking at his tense, upright posture and sweaty face, she smiled mischievously, as if she had pulled off a prank.
Her red lips parted slightly, her voice languid yet dangerous, like a whisper in a lover's ear.
"I can't draw well..."
"But there will be penalties."
"Whoosh—"
Zhang Yan's brush, freshly dipped in paint, left a striking, deep red stroke on the canvas that didn't belong to any outline.
Like a glaring scar.