“Mo Han.”
Mo Han snapped his head back to see Bai Ziyan slowly open his eyes.
His gaze rested vaguely in mid-air, lacking any clear focus.
Mo Han tensed up, taking a step toward Bai Ziyan, only to notice that Bai Ziyan’s focus had still not returned.
That pair of hands praised as “transmitting the voice of God” were currently gripping a smartphone loosely, the tip of his right index finger resting lightly against the pitch-black phone case.
He couldn’t see him; he had just suddenly thought of him.
Mo Han couldn’t tell whether he felt relief or disappointment, and his shoulders gradually relaxed.
Picking up his phone, Bai Ziyan tapped his slender fingers across the screen, casting a cascade of graceful light and shadow.
He had never met Mo Qin before, and if anything could make Mo Qin lose her composure upon seeing him for the first time, he could only think of that person rumored to look remarkably like him—Mo Han.
Believing him to be an insignificant person, Bai Ziyan hadn’t expected that he would appear with surprising frequency ever since his return to China.
Pressing search, the page shifted. To top the results was not a report concerning the Second Young Master of the Mo family as he had expected, but rather an article praising a folk artisan. Right at the forefront was Mo Han’s name.
Bai Ziyan froze, straightening up as he clicked on it. The moment he saw the image on the page, his pupils constricted sharply.
A straw-woven masterpiece came into view.
On a straw mat measuring a full two meters in length and width, a qilin leaped forward.
The qilin stood out in relief, akin to a raised carving in relief sculpture, accompanied by auspicious clouds trailing behind its back. Thousands of blades of grass were woven into the qilin’s flowing mane, and as the hair seemed to ripple, it looked as though it were about to step upon the clouds and depart the next second.
Bai Ziyan held his breath, his heart pounding frantically, every single beat echoing with joy.
Eagerly scrolling down, a wave of profound regret washed over him when he saw the message stating that this straw weave had already been purchased.
Staring deeply at the buyer’s name, he continued scrolling down and spotted a spread-winged phoenix.
A phoenix combining straw-weaving and bamboo-plaiting techniques, measuring a full meter in length. Delicate blades of grass and bamboo strips were woven into its soft, lightweight feathers, and its long tail feathers nearly dragged across the ground, looking as if a gust of wind could carry it aloft to ride the breeze.
Naturally, this one had been bought up as well.
The report showered Mo Han in lavish praise, as if the rise of folk arts rested entirely on Mo Han’s shoulders alone. Yet Bai Ziyan found nothing exaggerated about it, because the report revealed that Mo Han was only eighteen years old when he wove the qilin straw artwork.
Scrolling to the very end, he finally caught a glimpse of what Mo Han looked like from a blurry photo taken seven years ago.
It was strikingly clear.
Even through the hazy photograph, one could tell that their facial features did indeed bear a strong resemblance.
Especially Mo Han smiling with a hint of bashfulness, which looked a good eighty to ninety percent like himself in his youth.
No wonder Mo Qin had looked at him over and over again; they really did look alike.
Swiping forward, Bai Ziyan saved both photographs.
They were so full of life and spirit, practically as vivid as seeing them in person.
The last person whose skill was this profound was his favorite carving artist, whose name was Qianshan.
Qianshan excelled most at nuclear carving, capable of carving towering mountains, flowing rivers, and a hundred avatars of Buddha onto a tiny peach pit. His most famous piece was the “Hundred Buddha Mountain,” which required a magnifying glass to appreciate; hundreds of Buddha statues were carved onto that minuscule peach pit.
Regrettably, by the time Bai Ziyan learned of Qianshan, the artist had already gone into seclusion. Furthermore, very few nuclear carvings circulated in the outside world, so Bai Ziyan had only managed to acquire two pieces.
Bai Ziyan deduced that Qianshan was around forty years old, because carving skills of that caliber required a minimum of twenty years of practice.
Yet how old was Mo Han when he wove the qilin stepping on clouds? Eighteen.
This could only mean that Mo Han’s talent had reached a terrifying degree.
Staring repeatedly at the two pictures, Bai Ziyan felt an immense surge of joy and longed to make Mo Han’s acquaintance immediately, only to recall Duan Cang’s expression of disgust whenever he brought him up.
“… Pestering endlessly, using cheap and low-class tactics, like a plaster cast you can’t shake off.”
Duan Cang’s friends had also dropped hints, their words dripping with ridicule and sympathy for Duan Cang.
[He’s just an illegitimate son, everyone knows how that goes.]
[He didn’t have it easy in the Mo family; once he was brought down from the mountains and tasted luxury, he wouldn’t want to go back. Of course he had to latch onto a powerful backer.]
[Who knows where he found out that he looks a bit like you, Bai Ge? Brother Duan is soft-hearted and got entangled before he even realized it.]
It was still uncertain whether these accounts carried subjective bias, but since his beloved detested Mo Han, he certainly could not associate with him.
Bai Ziyan glanced at the photos once more, feeling a tinge of regret.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and Eldest Brother Bai pushed it in. Seeing that his older brother was in good spirits, Bai Ziyan smiled and asked, “Big Brother, did the negotiation go smoothly?”
Eldest Brother Bai nodded. “Partnering with Mo Qin is far better than partnering with Mo Fu.”
After a brief pause, Eldest Brother Bai added mercilessly, “Ever since Mo Qin temporarily took charge of the Mo family, stock prices have gone up. If Mo Fu steps down sooner, the Mo family might actually stand a fighting chance to climb higher.”
Through these words, Eldest Brother Bai showed utter contempt for the Mo family’s current head—Mo Han’s father.
Recalling the decisive and formidable President Mo who shared a resemblance with his own older brother, Bai Ziyan asked, “By the way, Big Brother, do you know Mo Han?”
Eldest Brother Bai asked, “Is he Mo Qin’s younger brother?”
Bai Ziyan replied, “Yes.”
Eldest Brother Bai shook his head. “He has never stepped foot inside the Mo company, nor has he ever attended any Mo family banquets. Almost no one has ever seen him; Mo Fu doesn’t treat him like a son.”
A child who was unfavored and practically invisible attracted minimal attention within elite circles; no one would waste their energy on someone on the periphery.
Even someone like Eldest Brother Bai, who possessed an almost obsessive compulsion for dominance over the business world, had no idea that Mo Han bore a striking resemblance to his second younger brother.
Thinking of this, Bai Ziyan suddenly felt a trace of oddity—
Whether it was himself or Duan Cang, both were prominent figures within high society. If someone had truly relied on looking like him to hound Duan Cang, it should have been the talk of the town long ago. Yet the existence of Mo Han was remarkably unknown to most.
Perhaps Duan Cang feared negative press and directly clamped down on the news?
Bai Ziyan probed, “What is the relationship between Mo Qin and Mo Han? It seemed like she cared a bit about this younger brother.”
“I never heard her mention him during our talks.” Eldest Brother Bai picked up a file from the side and handed it to Bai Ziyan. “Since you just got back, familiarize yourself with these documents first. You start your position tomorrow.”
The smile on Bai Ziyan’s face morphed into a wry one. “You can’t be serious, Big Brother.”
Despite saying that, he nimbly opened the documents and began to flip through them.
Watching this, Mo Han let out a breath of relief.
Having one’s background and information scrutinized to one’s face was an unpleasant sensation, entirely different from what Mo Han had imagined.
He had thought he should look forward to Bai Ziyan digging deeper and deeper until he uncovered the seven years he spent entangled with Duan Cang. But when Bai Ziyan actually started asking, Mo Han wished he could pack up his information and vanish from this world forever.
Mo Han knew precisely where this emotion stemmed from
Inferiority.
And perhaps the shame of recalling those two years of willingly debasing himself, terrified of being exposed.
Mo Han had stayed with Duan Cang for seven years. For the first five years, he remained completely oblivious to the fact that he was being used as a substitute; for the final two years, fully aware that he was merely a stand-in, he willingly stayed by Duan Cang’s side in that capacity.
Base.
That was how Mo Han evaluated those two years of his life.
He still remembered that day when Duan Cang was in the study. Passing by, he found the door ajar, and Duan Cang’s voice drifted straight into his ears.
[He’s just a substitute. We’re just messing around; who would take it seriously?]
Mo Han’s hand had frozen mid-air.
Five years after being with his beloved, he learned that he was a substitute for the unattainable white moonlight in his beloved’s heart.
Mo Han stood frozen in the doorway until the door was yanked wide open. Looking at him standing there, Duan Cang’s expression held no panic; instead, it carried a faint weariness, as if the person guilty of such a despicable act wasn’t Duan Cang, but Mo Han.
Duan Cang asked, “How much did you hear?”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Looks like you heard it all.”
Leaning casually against the doorframe with an indifferent air, Duan Cang asked, “So, are you leaving? Or will you stay by my side in the capacity of a substitute?”
Mo Han did not answer. He simply turned around and walked back to his room.
The next morning, just like any other day off at home, Duan Cang ate breakfast prepared by Mo Han.
He had stayed.