The Bartolomeo Art Center was not far.

Zoe and Benny took a taxi, and it only took about twenty minutes to get there.

For this art exhibition, the venue had been carefully decorated.

The entrance to the exhibition exuded a tranquil and elegant atmosphere. Two tall automatic glass doors, clear and sparkling, reflected the dappled shadows of the trees outside and the silhouettes of the passing crowd. The sunlight danced on the transparent facade, scattering tiny rays of light.

The doorframe was adorned with exquisite carvings, the bronze carvings gleaming with a classical luster under the sunlight, inviting every passerby to enter.

Of course, this was the east entrance.

The red carpet and reception were set up at the east entrance, unrelated to the north entrance where Zoe and Benny were currently located.

Although the decoration at the north entrance wasn’t exactly poor, compared to the elaborate red carpet and reception of the east entrance, it still lacked a certain flair.

In addition, the north entrance featured a ticketing center for offline ticket purchases, along with a temporary service center recently set up, staffed with volunteers.

So, a fair number of onlookers or ticket buyers gathered here.

"So, I’m the invited expert, which means I can take you through the east entrance," Benny glanced at Zoe, not understanding why she insisted on going through the north entrance.

"Sounds like you really like showing off at the east entrance," Zoe quipped, giving Benny an eye roll.

She didn’t explain why she chose the north entrance, instead diverting the conversation.

She knew Benny didn’t want to appear at the east entrance, under the spotlight, facing a crowd of cameras on the red carpet.

"Heh," Benny chuckled, then took out the invitation letter and showed it to the staff at the entrance before leading Zoe inside.

At this point, several visitors were already admiring the exhibits, speaking in hushed tones, sharing their thoughts quietly without disturbing others.

The first floor of the Bartolomeo Art Center covered nearly one hundred thousand square meters, but only twenty masterpieces from artists around the world occupied the space.

So even though each artist’s exhibit featured more than one piece, the space still felt relatively open.

Each exhibit was like a carefully curated small world, independently and harmoniously existing, guiding visitors deeper into the realm of art.

The aisles between the exhibits were wide and appropriately spaced, giving every observer enough room to appreciate each piece without feeling crowded.

Soft lighting focused on each artwork. Whether it was a delicate oil painting or an elegant watercolor, each piece blossomed with a unique charm as light and shadow danced around it. The background of the exhibits was often in neutral tones, designed to ensure that no external elements would steal the spotlight from the artwork itself, allowing the colors and brushstrokes to be the sole focus.

Soft background music, just loud enough to be heard but not overwhelming, subtly influenced the mood of the visitors, helping them immerse themselves in the exhibition atmosphere without distracting from their contemplation of the works.

Zoe and Benny hadn’t walked far before they encountered the first exhibit.

Watercolor paintings were displayed in every corner of the booth, all created by one artist.

As for the artist, they had entered with the other invited guests through the east entrance and were now in a designated rest area, chatting and relaxing.

Zoe, with her keen perceptual abilities, casually took in the vibrant colors of the watercolors, her eyes narrowing slightly.

She didn’t understand art.

However, from her perspective, which allowed her to sense more colors than most, she thought these paintings appeared rigid and lifeless, lacking any real appeal.

On the other hand, Benny, whose perception was less acute but who had a good understanding of art and a sharp tongue, muttered under his breath, “How does trash like this get exhibited?”

“This is the epitome of wasting paint! This watercolor looks like a random flyer tossed onto the street after a storm, soaked in rain and stuck together in a haphazard mess. The colors don’t capture the liveliness or transparency of watercolor; instead, they’re like the chaotic scribbles of a child. The composition is messy, and the theme is unclear. Is this supposed to be a work of art or an assault on the viewer's eyes? What they’re calling artistic expression seems like a poor attempt to cover up a lack of skill and creativity. I’d suggest the artist at least learn to master basic color harmony and composition before wasting any more canvas. Otherwise, this kind of work only deserves to be pinned to the ‘How Not to Paint’ section of an art class…”

Benny’s continuous stream of criticism was abruptly interrupted as a staff member in uniform passed by.

Almost instinctively, Benny switched gears, saying, “This artist has skillfully used the characteristics of watercolor, controlling the moisture level to create a beautiful, fluid effect on the paper…”

As the staff member walked away, Benny’s forced compliments came to an immediate halt.

Zoe couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

Benny might be sharp-tongued, but at least he didn’t have to worry about getting punched in the face for it.

“Joking aside, you can’t deny this first exhibit is below par. Don’t tell me this is the average level of the entire exhibition. If it is, I might just turn around and leave. I’ve heard there are paintings here worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

Seeing Zoe laughing, Benny couldn’t help but defend himself.

It wasn’t his fault he had to change his tune so quickly.

The level of the painting at the entrance really didn’t deserve any praise.

“The organizers said the exhibits are arranged randomly. Maybe they didn’t place the best ones at the entrance, or maybe the best ones are already here. Let’s go further in and take a look.”

Zoe recalled the information she read the day before and pointed toward the depths of the venue, suggesting to Benny.

She hadn’t seen much yet.

Just standing there, her perceptive abilities couldn’t even fully detect the exhibit in the southeast corner of the second floor, booth 72, since the Bartolomeo Art Center was quite large.

They would have to walk a bit further, maybe to the next exhibit, before her senses would be able to reach it.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Benny nodded and led the way forward.

As they walked, Zoe, walking behind, simultaneously focused on extending her perceptive abilities just a bit further.

Everything around them came into view.

Not just the first floor, but the second floor was fully covered by Zoe’s perception.

The atmosphere on the second floor was much livelier than the first.

If the first floor was a serene exhibition of artworks and staff, the second floor felt more like a marketplace.

The booths were smaller and almost right next to each other.

In the same amount of space, the first floor held twenty booths, while the second floor had one hundred and eighty.

But the second-floor exhibits had one advantage.

The second floor mostly featured works by art students and amateur artists from various fields, who didn’t carry the same pretensions as the famous artists on the first floor.

Most of the authors sat at their respective booths, creating artwork for the audience to watch.

As a result, many visitors, who weren’t deeply immersed in art, found themselves drawn to the second floor, where they could watch the artists work, rather than staying on the cold, sterile first floor.

Before long,

Zoe’s heightened perception of the world reached the southeast corner of the second floor, where her sharp senses absorbed every booth, artwork, artist, and visitor in sight.

At Booth 72, vibrant, stunning paintings were on display, accompanied by a nameplate that read "Camellya."

However...

There was no one at Booth 72.

This immediately piqued Zoe’s sense of caution.

"Where is the artist? Did someone find me? How was I detected?"

But within a 200-meter radius, there was no clear sign of anyone approaching her! Even the concrete foundation beneath the floor was unremarkable, with no unusual activity or life.

After scanning the surroundings with a cautious eye, a host of thoughts raced through Zoe’s mind.

Had it not been for the vivid, eye-catching paintings still placed at Booth 72, and the tourists gathered around waiting expectantly, she might have been tempted to leave immediately.

After a brief moment of contemplation, her mind calmed, and her rational thought process regained control. She turned her attention to the murmurs of the crowd gathered around Booth 72.

Through their whispers, she learned that the artist had stepped away to use the restroom.

Zoe decided to wait a little longer.

Before doing so, however, she couldn’t help but observe the artwork on display at Booth 72.

Compared to the other works in the exhibition, the paintings at this booth were brimming with a certain spirit, an almost palpable vitality.

For ordinary viewers, the pieces appeared merely as colorful and innovative, though they couldn’t quite pinpoint what made them special. They simply felt there was something distinct in the colors used, setting them apart from the works of other artists.

But through Zoe’s extraordinary perception, which allowed her to see beyond the ordinary, she could tell these paintings seemed to capture a hidden, deeper meaning she couldn't comprehend.

In particular, the image of a few roses in the paintings felt as though they had been painted in the exact same way that Amigo once described the red roses—an image that captured a true essence.

To others, the difference was just in the richness of the colors used. But in Zoe’s eyes, these paintings revealed the artist's attempt to express the raw, unfiltered truth of the world—a truth only someone capable of seeing beyond the ordinary could grasp. Yet, despite their best efforts, these onlookers could not fully capture that truth.

A profound loneliness, that feeling of being misunderstood, began to swell up within her.

Just as she was lost in these thoughts...

The noise around her drew her attention back, and she pulled herself out of her intense focus in the southeast corner of the second floor.

It was then that Benny leaned in, speaking in a whisper full of mystery, “Look at these works. They were painted by someone I know. Although the artist isn’t here, their paintings are. One of the reasons I’m here is to see how much they’ve improved.”

Zoe turned her gaze to the paintings in front of her—each one depicted a person strolling in the rain, painted in watercolor, signed by Martin Remerez.

“A familiar person?” Zoe raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

Benny’s acquaintances weren’t always the most reputable. In fact, many of them could be described as rather dangerous.

After all, Benny was wanted in multiple countries and had once worked with an international criminal organization to destabilize the economy of an oil nation. His social circle before returning to the country was far from wholesome.

“Ah, you're thinking too far,” Benny chuckled. “This is Martin Remerez, a well-known international artist. Not one of those shady types.”

“I’ve interacted with him before. I sold him a fake Van Gogh painting, People in the Park Walking in the Rain. Of course, I forged the painting. The real one has been in my collection ever since I ‘borrowed’ it from a museum.”

“At the time, he didn’t realize it was a fake. He bought it without a second thought. But later, he met a girlfriend who had tetrachromacy and had seen the original People in the Park Walking in the Rain herself. That’s when the forgery was exposed.”

“Apparently, ever since then, he’s been painting scenes of people walking in the rain, trying to reach the level I faked. Unfortunately, he’s never been able to replicate it. After breaking up with that girlfriend, his progress has stagnated considerably.”

Benny spoke with a smug expression, clearly proud of his past deeds.

But Zoe wasn’t focused on Benny’s exploits.

What caught her attention was something Benny had casually mentioned—the girl with tetrachromacy.

“Tetrachromacy?!” Zoe muttered, her eyes widening in realization.

“That’s right,” Benny continued. “For people like us who forge art, someone with tetrachromacy is like a microscope. They can detect the subtle differences in color between a forgery and the original that normal people can’t see.”

Zoe didn’t have time to listen to Benny’s explanation.

Her mind was racing with possibilities. The concept of tetrachromacy echoed in her thoughts, pulling up the memory of an article she had read some time ago. The details of the condition suddenly flashed before her eyes:

Tetrachromacy is an extremely rare visual phenomenon. Individuals with tetrachromacy possess four types of cone cells in their eyes, compared to the usual three. This allows them to perceive a far wider spectrum of colors.

While ordinary people can distinguish about a million colors, tetrachromats can perceive up to a billion different colors.

Could it be... Amigo, the girl named Camellya, was actually a tetrachromat?

The thought hit her like a lightning bolt.

Had she overlooked this possibility due to her cautious nature?

Zoe had always assumed the worst, preparing for the most dangerous scenarios in order to stay vigilant. It was her way of ensuring that she never dropped her guard.

She paused, deep in thought.

Then, quickly making an excuse to head to the restroom, she stepped away from Benny, who was still absorbed in examining the works of Martin Remerez with increasingly mocking smiles.

Zoe slipped into a corner that Benny hadn’t noticed, her attention sharpening once more as she turned her perception to the southeast corner of the second floor, to Booth 72, where Camellya had returned.

Before long, a young woman approached Booth 72.

She wore a simple yet elegant cotton and linen dress, its hem swaying gently in the breeze. The dress seemed to harmonize with the surrounding artistic atmosphere.

Her long hair was tied in a loose bun, with a few stray strands falling gracefully, adding an air of gentle literary charm to her appearance.

Perched on her shoulder was a raven, quietly perched there.

It was her—the artist known as Camellya.

As she sat down at Booth 72, the surrounding visitors watched eagerly, waiting for her to resume her work on the unfinished painting.

It depicted a side-profile of a person, looking up into the distance, with their watch still raised in their hand, as if they had just checked the time.

The figure in the painting seemed to be waiting for someone.

Meanwhile, the real Camellya, gazing idly around the room, pouted slightly as she continued painting, her eyes often drifting to the surroundings, scanning the second-floor space.

Zoe’s heightened perception confirmed there was nothing unusual about her—no hidden dangers.

But unlike the other viewers, who admired her beauty and her artwork, Zoe’s attention was elsewhere.

“Her movements seem off, her steps uncertain, her limbs lacking strength. Her heartbeat and blood circulation seem normal, no unusual scents or danger signals detected through my mental scans… She doesn’t seem like someone hiding in the shadows, waiting to harm other evolved individuals.”

“Wait... Could it be…”

“Am I just overthinking things?”