The back gate of Wolven High was a place usually reserved for delinquents skipping class or the occasional stray cat looking for scraps. It was a narrow, shadowed alleyway lined with overgrown ivy and discarded soda cans.
On this particular Tuesday afternoon, however, the alley was occupied by a vehicle that looked entirely out of place. It was a black, bulletproof van with tinted windows and a license plate that screamed authority: **Capital A-00009**.
Inside the van, a figure was huddled in the back seat, peering anxiously through the dark glass. He was wearing a bucket hat pulled low over his forehead, a pair of oversized sunglasses that covered half his face, and a patterned silk scarf wrapped around his neck. He looked less like a distinguished artist and more like a fugitive on the run.
This was **Master Wei**, the violinist whose hands were insured for fifty million dollars and whose name opened doors in every royal court in Europe.
"Where is she?" Master Wei muttered, tapping his fingers against the leather armrest. "She said ten minutes. It's been eleven."
His driver, a stoic man who was used to the Master's eccentricities, checked his watch. "She'll be here, Master. Miss Ren is... punctual in her own way."
Just then, the heavy metal door of the school's back exit creaked open.
**Ren** stepped out. She was wearing her school uniform with the usual disregard for the dress code—shirt untucked, tie missing, hands shoved deep into her pockets. She had a lollipop stick protruding from the corner of her mouth, and she walked with a lazy, rhythmic stride that suggested she had nowhere important to be.
She spotted the van and sighed, walking over to the window.
The window rolled down three inches.
"You're late," Master Wei hissed through the gap.
"I had to wait for the teacher to stop talking," Ren deadpanned. She leaned against the car door. "Did you bring it?"
"Ungrateful brat," Master Wei grumbled. The door slid open automatically.
He reached into a thermal bag sitting on the seat next to him and pulled out a large, foil-wrapped package. The savory, rich aroma of roast duck instantly filled the alleyway, overpowering the smell of damp pavement.
"Peking Duck from the Capital," Master Wei said, handing it to her as if he were passing over state secrets. "The chef made it an hour ago. It was flown in on a private jet. It's still hot."
Ren took the package, her expression softening slightly. "Not bad, Old Man. You're useful sometimes."
Master Wei scoffed, adjusting his sunglasses. "I didn't come all this way just to be your delivery boy. Here."
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sleek, black envelope. It was heavy, made of textured cardstock, and featured a stylized violin embossed in real gold leaf on the front.
"What's this?" Ren asked, balancing the roast duck on her knee so she could take the envelope.
"The salon tonight," Master Wei said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "I know you said you didn't want to play. But I want you to come. Just listen. The acoustics in the Moon City Concert Hall are decent. I saved you the best seat."
Ren looked at the black envelope. She felt the weight of it in her hand. It wasn't just a ticket; it was an expectation. It was a reminder of the life she had left behind in the Capital—the grueling practice sessions, the applause, the pressure.
"I have homework," Ren said, trying to hand it back.
"Keep it!" Master Wei pushed her hand away. "If you don't come, I'll tell your grandmother you've been skipping meals."
Ren clicked her tongue in annoyance. She shoved the black envelope into the pocket of her windbreaker, crumpling it slightly.
"Fine. But don't expect me to dress up."
"Just show up," Master Wei pleaded. "And wash your hands before you eat that duck."
Ren slammed the van door shut. She waved the bag of food in the air as a goodbye and walked back toward the school.
Master Wei watched her go, shaking his head. "That girl... she treats a five-thousand-dollar ticket like a napkin and a world-class duck like a snack. What am I going to do with her?"
***
Twenty minutes later, the classroom of **Class 9** had been transformed into a banquet hall.
"Oh my god, Ren!" **Joey** moaned, his mouth full of crispy duck skin. "This is insane. This isn't just food; it's a religious experience. Where did you buy this? The skin just melts!"
**Lily** was busy assembling small wraps with pancakes, scallions, and hoisin sauce. "It's so good! I've never had duck this authentic. Ren, your 'relative' must be really rich to send this."
Ren sat at her desk, drinking a can of cold cola. She watched her classmates devour the food with a faint look of amusement.
"He's not a relative," Ren said, picking up a piece of meat with her chopsticks. "Just a persistent old man."
**Xavier** sat a few desks away. He wasn't eating. He was watching Ren.
He had smelled the duck the moment Ren walked in. It was a distinctive scent—a specific blend of fruitwood smoke and secret spices that only one restaurant in the Capital used. A restaurant that required reservations six months in advance.
And she called the person who brought it a "persistent old man"?
Xavier's mind was still reeling from the black notebook incident. Now, another piece of the puzzle had dropped. Ren's connections were not just wealthy; they were specific. They pointed to the very heart of the Capital's elite.
***
The festive atmosphere was interrupted by the sharp click-clack of high heels.
**Faye** stood in the doorway of Class 9, her face contorted in disgust. She waved a lace handkerchief in front of her nose.
"What is that smell?" Faye demanded, her voice cutting through the laughter. "It smells like grease and onions. This is a place of learning, not a street market. Can you open the windows?"
Joey rolled his eyes, swallowing a massive bite of duck. "It's called lunch, Faye. Don't be jealous just because you're eating a salad."
Faye ignored him. She walked over to Ren's desk, her eyes scanning the messy spread of food wrappings. She looked down at Ren with a mixture of pity and superiority.
"Ren," Faye said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Mother told me to remind you not to come home late tonight. We are all going out, so the house will be locked."
Ren didn't look up. She took a sip of her cola. "Going where?"
Faye smiled. This was the moment she had been waiting for.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. It was elegant, with silver embossing.
"We are going to **Master Wei's** private salon," Faye announced, making sure her voice carried to the surrounding desks. "It's the most exclusive event of the year. My violin teacher pulled a lot of strings to get this."
The classroom went quiet. Even Joey stopped chewing.
"Whoa," a student whispered. "Master Wei? The violin god?"
"Yes," Faye beamed, holding the ticket up so the light caught the silver foil. "It's an invitation-only event. Only the most promising young musicians and the city's top families were invited. I'm going to audition for him."
She looked at Ren, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "It's a shame you can't come, sister. But honestly, you wouldn't understand the music anyway. It requires a certain... refinement. You're probably happier here, eating your greasy duck."
Faye felt a surge of satisfaction. This was her domain. Ren might have won a speech contest with a lucky accent, but the world of high art was closed to her. A ticket like this couldn't be bought with luck; it required status.
"Is that so?" Ren asked, finally setting her cola down.
"Yes," Faye said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But don't worry. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Maybe I'll even get an autograph for you, although I doubt you know who he is."
***
Ren looked at Faye, then at the cream-colored ticket in her hand.
She felt a vibration in her pocket. It was probably the Old Man texting her again to make sure she was eating.
Ren sighed. She reached for her cola can, but the desk was covered in duck sauce and wrappers. There was no clean spot to put the cold, wet can.
"Troublesome," Ren muttered.
She reached into the pocket of her windbreaker and pulled out a crumpled black object. She tossed it onto the desk, flattened it with the palm of her hand, and then placed her dripping can of cola squarely on top of it.
It was a black envelope. Thick, textured paper.
And right in the center, peeking out from under the aluminum can, was a violin embossed in **pure gold**.
Faye frowned. She didn't recognize the envelope. She assumed it was just some trash or a flyer Ren had picked up.
"Well, enjoy your lunch," Faye sneered. "I have to go prepare my dress for tonight."
She turned and walked away, her head held high, clutching her white silver-embossed ticket like a trophy.
But **Xavier** didn't move.
He was sitting three feet away. He had excellent eyesight.
He stared at the black envelope under Ren's cola can. He saw the gold embossing. He saw the intricate, hand-pressed seal of the Wei family crest in the corner.
His heart stopped for a second.
In the hierarchy of Master Wei's events, there were three tiers of tickets.
White with Silver: General Admission. For local elites and students.
Red with Gold: VIP. For city officials and major sponsors.
**Black with Gold**: VVIP.
The Black Ticket was a myth. It wasn't sold. It wasn't given to sponsors. It was reserved for Master Wei's personal guests—his family, his closest friends, or fellow masters of the art.
Xavier looked at Faye's retreating back, then at Ren.
Faye was treating her White Ticket like the Holy Grail.
Ren was using her Black Ticket as a **coaster**.
The condensation from the cola can was pooling on the expensive black cardstock, threatening to ruin the gold leaf.
"Ren," Xavier choked out, his voice sounding strangled.
Ren looked at him, her cheeks full of duck. "What?"
"That..." Xavier pointed a trembling finger at the coaster. "That envelope. Do you know what that is?"
Ren glanced down at it. "Oh. That. The Old Man gave it to me. It's some flyer for a music thing."
"A flyer?" Xavier felt lightheaded. "Ren, that's a VVIP invitation to Master Wei's salon. It's worth more than your life. And you're... you're getting soda on it."
Ren shrugged. She lifted the can, wiped the water ring off the gold violin with her sleeve, and put the can back down.
"It's just paper," Ren said indifferently. "Besides, the table is dirty."
Xavier stared at her. He looked at the grease on her fingers, the careless way she sat, the absolute lack of reverence for the object that the entire city was fighting to obtain.
He realized then that Faye was a clown. She was a clown performing in a circus she didn't understand. She was bragging about standing in the back row to a girl who was invited to sit on the throne.
"You're not going?" Xavier asked, his voice a whisper.
"Depends," Ren said, picking up another piece of duck. "If the duck makes me sleepy, I'm staying home."
Xavier closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The world was unfair.
Some people fought their whole lives to climb the mountain.
Others were born on the summit and complained about the view.
Ren was definitely the latter. And Xavier couldn't help but feel a terrifying sense of awe for the girl who treated the summit like a picnic ground.
**[Chapter 38 End]**