Everly wasn’t interested in Shelly’s art exhibition, but she did want to see “The Sea Demon Under the Moon.”
It was truly an outstanding painting. Before this, Everly had never imagined that anyone could use a sculpture as the subject and so vividly capture Lamia’s contradictory nature—both gentle and dangerous—down to the finest detail.
After the Golden Anchor incident ended, the siren returned to the underworld. Ever since, Everly could only see her “siren mother” in fleeting dreams at midnight. If possible, she would very much like to see that painting—the one that had led countless people to associate Lamia with “motherhood.”
The Gegha Art Museum, where the solo exhibition was being held, was located in the northern part of Gegha City, only about ten kiloters from the airport. The exhibition was open to the public for free—no reservations or tickets required.
After doing a bit of research with Misha and confirming that no serious incidents had occurred around the museum, the two of them simply grabbed their backpacks and took a taxi to Shelly’s exhibition.
As a fairly well-known painter in the Arican art world, Shelly had a decent following. Combined with the fact that his famous work “Under the Moon” would also be on display, even more visitors ca specifically for it.
Fortunately, art exhibitions are generally refined events. In addition, the paintings on display were extrely valuable, so the organizers had deployed a team of ard security personnel to prevent accidents. As a result, order in the exhibition hall was well maintained.
Everyone who stepped into the gallery, upon seeing the bright lighting and spotless, gleaming floors, would unconsciously slow their pace and lower their voices, trying to blend into the environnt and present themselves as cultured and refined individuals.
Everly and Misha followed the crowd, slowly making their way through the exhibition from the entrance.
It had to be said—though her scumbag father Shelly was a failure as a parent, he truly had skill when it ca to painting.
One after another, paintings with mythological and religious thes were hung along the walls. So were rich and heavy in tone, so fresh and bright in style, and others strange and unconventional in temperant. Each piece was distinctive, making people stop and admire them without even realizing it.
They had originally planned to just stroll around casually and leave after seeing the final highlight, “Under the Moon.” Unexpectedly, the exhibition hall wasn’t very large, but as the two of them walked and looked at the paintings, nearly an hour had passed by the ti they finally reached the area near the exit.
The final piece, “Under the Moon,” was hung on a separate display wall right beside the exit. It was a very large painting, nearly two ters tall.
A crowd had gathered in front of it, three layers deep. So stood with their heads tilted up, silently admiring it. So raised their phones or caras, snapping photos. Others only glanced at the painting once before being struck by a surge of emotion, stepping aside and quietly shedding tears.
Everly felt like crying too.
She didn’t push her way forward. Instead, she stood at the outer edge of the crowd, gazing through slightly blurred, tear-filled eyes, gently tracing Lamia’s figure with her eyes. Her heart was filled with longing and a faint sadness.
Misha remained silent the entire ti, quietly staying by Everly’s side.
It should have been a very warm and touching scene.
However, a sudden burst of noise rang out, shattering the calm of the exhibition hall.
The source of the commotion was a group of people walking from the middle of the hall toward the exit.
At the front was a man in his early forties. He was tall, with golden curly hair tied into a ponytail at the back of his head, blue eyes, and a handso face—though it was currently filled with impatience.
Seeing that signature hairstyle and a face that had barely changed in twenty years, Everly recognized him at a glance—it was the biological father of this body, the scumbag Shelly.
After so many years without seeing him, he hadn’t aged much. Aside from a slightly gloomier aura, he looked like he had been living quite comfortably.
Behind Shelly was a middle-aged man in a suit who seed to be his assistant. A bespectacled reporter followed closely beside them, along with a caraman carrying a video cara. The reporter was running as he tried to get past the assistant, thrusting a microphone toward Shelly while calling out repeatedly:
“Mr. Shelly, please wait! May I ask you a question?”
“Sorry, I’m very busy. I don’t have ti for interviews.”
The reporter didn’t give up. Forcing his way past the obstructing assistant, he chased after Shelly and continued shouting his questions at the top of his lungs:
“…Mr. Shelly, Mr. Shelly, please wait! Could you tell us—after twenty years, seeing ‘Under the Moon’ again, how do you feel?”
Shelly kept a tight expression, sidestepping the reporter who blocked his path, while his assistant, quick to read the situation, raised a hand and signaled to the nearby security.
Upon receiving the cue, the security personnel imdiately strode over.
“Just one question, just one…” Seeing that security was about to rush in and throw him out of the exhibition hall, the reporter hurriedly raised his voice and seized the mont, firing off the question he cared about most like a rapid volley:
“Mr. Shelly! Do you know that people say your creation of ‘Under the Moon’ back then was purely a coincidence—that you’ve already lost your creative ability and can never produce a similar work again? About this, you—”
“Shut up!”
Unexpectedly, upon hearing that question, Shelly—who had been tight-lipped and maintaining a proud, aloof deanor—suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned around, and let out an angry roar at the reporter.
That shout instantly drew the attention of everyone in the exhibition hall. When they realized it was the painter himself yelling, murmurs spread through the crowd. So quick-reacting onlookers even pulled out their phones and started recording with keen interest.
“Mr. Shelly, calm down, please calm down… Security, quickly remove this rude reporter!”
The assistant stepped forward, using his body to block the caras pointed at Shelly while trying to soothe him. However, Shelly was like a lit firecracker—once ignited, no amount of persuasion could suppress his temper.
“They’re wrong, all of them are wrong! I haven’t lost my creative ability! Even now, I can still paint. My works are still popular across all of Arica. Look—so many people have gathered here for my paintings. Every single one of them can prove my talent!”
He glared at the reporter with a savage, beast-like ferocity, his tone filled with force and nace, as if he might lash out and attack the mont the reporter said sothing wrong.
But a reporter who could make a living in this line of work naturally had so skill—he wasn’t going to be intimidated by a re glare.
Sensing a hint of bluff beneath the painter’s aggressive front, he subtly signaled to his caraman partner and, clearly not afraid of stirring things up, provoked him further:
“But no matter how many new paintings you create, not a single one can surpass ‘Under the Moon,’ can it?”
The mont those words were spoken, the entire hall fell silent.
Indeed, even Everly—an outsider who never paid attention to her scumbag father—had heard the saying circulating in the Arican art world: that “Under the Moon” was Shelly’s creative peak, and that for the rest of his life, he would never be able to produce anything comparable again.
Everly didn’t really understand how these artists thought.
In her view, as long as money could be made, it didn’t really matter. Failing to surpass yourself wasn’t anything shaful. But Shelly clearly didn’t see it that way.
“Shut your mouth!” he shouted, his face flushed red with anger, his whole body trembling. Veins bulged at his temples, and his chest heaved violently beneath his suit. “There’s no such thing as a limit! Sooner or later, I’ll create sothing even better than ‘Under the Moon’… Yes, as long as I can see them one more ti—those real—”
As he spoke, Shelly’s focus began to drift. His gaze slid away from the reporter and wandered into empty space. The expression on his face grew increasingly excited, as if he were truly seeing sothing—or like a pitiful man completely lost in his own delusions.
“…”
How did this scumbag father manage to turn a perfectly good life into this?
After finally making money, wouldn’t it be better to just paint quietly and, every so often, let her “knock so sense into him” and squeeze out a bit more wealth? Instead, he obsessed over this and chased after that all day—he really had too much ti on his hands.
Having watched the farce unfold, Everly completely lost interest in the exhibition.
After carefully taking a few photos of “Under the Moon” on the wall with her phone, she didn’t stay to watch the argunt any longer, nor did she have any intention of acknowledging her father. She simply left the exhibition with Misha.
There were still several hours before their flight took off. The two of them wandered around a nearby mall, buying so small gifts suitable for relatives and friends. When the ti was about right, they took a taxi back to the hotel, packed their luggage, and prepared to board the plane.
The second half of the flight was just as smooth.
By early the next morning, the plane, bathed in the faint light of dawn, landed on the runway. Everly and Misha finally returned to Dwight State after being away for so long.
After leaving the airport and getting into their respective family cars, they traveled over mountains and through winding roads. By the ti Everly finally got back to the gas station, it was already afternoon.
She dropped her luggage in the living room without even bothering to unpack, then imdiately pestered Old John to take her down to the underground shelter for a look.
Back at the end of winter break, when they left the ranger’s cabin, Old John had made a detour to Yonah City specifically to inspect the effectiveness of the water purification equipnt being sold there.
The results of the inspection satisfied him greatly. He paid for the system on the spot and replaced the shelter’s original water purification setup with it.
On the way ho, Old John had been chatting with Everly about it, sharing all the improvents made to the underground shelter during the ti she was away at school—what performance upgrades it had gained, what new functions had been added, and what supplies still needed to be stocked… Listening to all this made Everly increasingly curious, and she wanted to see it for herself.
The two of them entered the shelter through a newly dug passage in the garage and opened the thick alloy blast door.
After more than half a year, the shelter had changed quite a bit.
The concrete walls, which originally only had a lead-lined layer, were now fitted on the innermost side with an additional titanium alloy lining resistant to corrosion and high temperatures. The air circulation system had been upgraded from a second-level filter to a three-stage system combining HEPA, activated carbon, and iodine-infused filters. The entire water purification system had been replaced, greatly improving its efficiency. An automatic sprinkler system had also been added to the ceiling, capable of cooling the interior through spraying in case of heat radiation caused by explosions or fires on the surface…
In addition to the structural upgrades, the supplies in the shelter’s storage room had beco increasingly abundant.
Over the years, Old John had been like a diligent little hamster—whether it was firearms and ammunition or food and dicine, as long as he thought it was necessary, he would make an effort to acquire it, filling the storage shelves to the brim.
By the way, the teorite fragnt Everly had asked him to hide was also safely stored in the storage room, placed right near the entrance—impossible to miss.
No one dislikes stockpiling, and Everly—who had been Chinese in her previous life—even more so.
Looking at the two-ter-high shelves packed with supplies, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishnt. She couldn’t help but wander around the storage room, touching things here and inspecting things there, almost losing herself among the neatly filled shelves.
As Everly explored, Old John leaned against the doorway with a smile, watching his granddaughter dart around inside like a little colt.
Just then, a ssage notification suddenly rang from his pocket.
Hearing it, Old John took out his phone and gave it a casual glance.
But as he read the words on the screen, his expression shifted—from confusion, to puzzlent, and finally to sudden seriousness.
“Everly,” he called out, signaling for her to co over. “Co take a look for —has my phone been infected with a virus?”
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