Chapter Twenty-Six: The Bamboo and Rocks in Ink Reflect the Soul—Entering Tranquility, the Embryonic Breath Is Established
The technique of ink painting was, of course, well known to the old man, a veteran steeped in the way of art. Yet, from ancient times, the depiction of bamboo had always favored the meticulous brush, so precise that even the veins of a single bamboo leaf required careful, delicate rendering. Who could have imagined that bamboo might be painted with such freedom, such spirit, such... untamed elegance?
The leaves hung at the side like swords at a warrior’s hip; the stalks stood upright as the backbone of a gentleman. Though not realistic in the strictest sense, the interplay between bold and light ink created a sense of depth, bringing this painting of bamboo and stone to vivid life. It seemed as if a gentle breeze might set the slender stalks swaying, yet they would remain unbowed, aloof and pure.
A new way of painting bamboo had emerged!
Suddenly snapping back to himself, the old man glanced at his wine cup, noticing how his excitement had sent the aged yellow wine spilling over the rim. Yet he felt utterly content.
“What a magnificent ink painting of bamboo and stone!” he exclaimed. “This wine has never tasted sweeter!”
He drained the cup in a single draught, the cold wine wetting his whiskers, and it filled him with exhilaration.
At this very moment, An Le had fallen into a strange state.
Outside the window, a myriad of stars cast their light, like a veil draped over An Le’s shoulders. The youth stood silently, brush in hand, while within his mind, his spirit surged with vitality.
The mental force tempered by the “Swordfall Painting” now resonated with every bamboo leaf in the ink painting, and faintly, the sharp intent of the sword seemed to coalesce within the artwork. Riding this momentum, An Le felt his cultivation of the spirit quicken dramatically.
The “Sword Dancer” Dao Fruit now revealed its full power, as if sword intent spilled from the painting itself, sparking a leap in An Le’s understanding of the “Swordfall Painting.”
His spirit grew rapidly stronger. In his Mud Pill Palace, that once-blurred little sword began to solidify and take form. At last, with a resonant clang, sword light flooded forth!
An Le’s spirit had crossed into a new realm. His five senses sharpened—he could now draw in the world’s spiritual energy without even breathing through nose or mouth.
Embryonic Breathing was a return to the source, heart and breath united, the mind unmoved and undisturbed, the spirit condensed in stillness.
The spirit of the bamboo and stone painting, harmonizing with the intent of the “Swordfall Painting,” allowed An Le to step directly into the second realm of spirit refinement—Embryonic Breathing!
After a long while, An Le slowly opened his eyes. The power of his spirit coursed within him, shining in the darkness like starlight in the heavens.
He had never imagined that a single painting could yield such effect. No wonder the old man had said that some masterpieces were as precious as magic treasures. When an artist put spirit into his work, it could nourish the creator’s heart and mind—and those who gazed upon it would also benefit.
“Unyielding, the bamboo clings to the green mountain, its roots deep within the shattered rock; battered a thousand times, still it stands strong, unmoved by winds from any direction.”
“Bamboo and stone—what a poem, what a painting!” the old man’s voice rang out in admiration from the side. An Le, newly entered into the realm of Embryonic Breathing, set down his brush and smiled.
“Thank you for your praise, elder.”
“Ink painting is not uncommon, but to paint bamboo with pure ink, without a trace of color, is rare indeed.”
“A fine poem for a fine painting. Young man, you have truly given this old fellow a pleasant surprise.” The old man nodded, studying the still-damp painting, his eyes full of unconcealed appreciation.
“Yesterday, you were ambushed at the entrance to Quiet Street. Luo Qingchen tried to bend your will with his strength, yet you did not bow. Today, seeing this painting, I know your heart holds the backbone of a gentleman—it’s no wonder you withstood such pressure without breaking.”
“This poem, this painting, are the reflection of your soul. That is why your spirit resonated with them, and upon sitting to meditate, you entered Embryonic Breathing at once.”
The old man stroked his beard, his words full of praise for An Le’s talent in spiritual cultivation. At last, his gaze settled on the inscription, and he narrowed his eyes.
“This calligraphy... is truly strange and unique. Flowing like running script, yet not quite; it even hints at the brushwork of painting. The characters are composed as if painting orchids, and though the arrangement is deliberate, the fusion of calligraphy and painting is unmatched in any age!”
The old man’s evaluation was exceedingly high; indeed, his discerning eye noticed that An Le’s calligraphy lacked maturity and had room for improvement. Yet considering An Le’s youth, such flaws were easily overlooked.
“Young friend An, this painting is truly something special—I am quite fond of it...” he said, stroking his beard.
An Le understood at once and replied, “If you like it, elder, I would be honored to give it to you. For a painting to find someone who appreciates it is a kind of good fortune.”
The old man laughed heartily. “Well said! Fine paintings need eyes that see. But I will not accept your work for nothing. Within this bamboo and stone painting, the sword intent is alive. Tomorrow, I will bring wine myself—and perhaps, gift you a sword as well. What do you say?”
An Le’s eyes lit up.
What sort of person was this old man? Any sword given by him would surely be extraordinary.
To trade a painting for a sword—An Le would surely gain by the exchange.
The old man did not linger. Eager to share this masterpiece, he carefully rolled up the scroll and, bidding An Le farewell, left the small courtyard.
Watching him depart, An Le smiled to himself. After tidying up, he sat cross-legged and began to cultivate his spirit.
A single painting had brought him to the threshold of Embryonic Breathing, but An Le felt no pride. Remembering the pressure Luo Qingchen had exerted at Quiet Street, he knew his current strength was still far from enough.
A young tiger resided in his heart, waiting and watching, its restlessness calmed for now.
He rejoiced not in fortune, nor mourned in adversity. Seated in the small courtyard, bathed in starlight and moon glow, he calmed his heart and solidified his new realm.
...
...
Night deepened, and thick mists rose, cloaking the sky, dimming both starlight and moonshine.
Within the tangled alleys of Lin’an Prefecture, hurried footsteps suddenly echoed. A shadow, cloaked entirely in black, darted away—a startled raven sweeping through the night.
Moments later, several blade-wielding constables in official garb arrived, blood and energy surging around them, exuding murderous intent.
Huang Xian’s eyes were icy as he peered into the twisting, shadowy lanes. “Hu Jingang has escaped us again! Keep after him!”
His Black Bureau constables bellowed in response, dashing ahead in pursuit.
Huang Xian’s expression softened as he exhaled and retrieved a scroll from his robes. Unrolling it, he revealed a portrait of Hu Jingang, a near-perfect likeness to the man who had just fled.
“Master An’s painting is truly miraculous.”
“With this portrait, and the reward of five hundred taels of silver, as long as Hu Jingang remains within Lin’an, he’s as good as caught!”
Rolling up the scroll, Huang Xian also set off, his form melting into the cool spring night.
...
...
Within a lavish mansion.
Dozens of candle flames lit the room as bright as day.
Luo Qingchen, clad in thin robes, sat cross-legged on his bed, spiritual power surging about him, blood and energy rumbling beneath his skin like thunder.
He was attempting to use spiritual force to cleanse the dust from his Dao heart.
Previously, he had been struck down with a single slap by the legendary scholar Li You’an, his Dao heart stained. Chancellor Qin had procured the “East Sea Heart-Cleansing Pearl” to help him dispel this dust, but at a price—he had joined the Qin household, now bound to their service.
Yesterday, he had been shaken by Hua Jiebing’s “Spring Rain Sword at a Snap of the Fingers.” The sword’s intent, like a seed of terror, had been planted in his heart, haunting his cultivation and clouding his Dao once more.
This was Hua Jiebing’s punishment for him.
Luo Qingchen resented it, but lacking strength, he could only endure.
Vast spiritual force howled within him like a gale, snuffing out every candle and ushering in suffocating darkness that swallowed all light.
In the blackness, Luo Qingchen’s eyes flew open, sweat streaming in great beads down his face.
He gasped for breath.
“No... it’s no use... The sword intent is etched in my heart, filling me with dread, making me tremble. Every time I cultivate, it rises like a specter, tormenting my will... My spiritual strength is not enough to erase it.”
Supporting himself on the bed, hair falling over his brow, his heart seethed with unwillingness.
Hua Jiebing’s strength was undeniable. Even in Lin’an, a city of formidable people, she held her own.
The shadow she cast over him was immense.
“All this because of a boy newly entered into meditation—Hua Jiebing would plant such a cruel seed of terror in my heart... A woman’s venom runs deep! Championing the boy was just an excuse—because I serve Chancellor Qin, she seized the chance to destroy my Dao heart, ruin my future!”
“In the struggles of the powerful, I am but a fish in the pond...”
Luo Qingchen shut his eyes, trembling with anger as memories of the previous day gnawed at him like a nightmare.
He saw the three thousand blades of spring rain descending from the sky.
He saw the carriage beside him reduced to dust by sword energy.
And, strangest of all, he saw the youth standing tall under his oppression, unbowed!
Oddly, the youth’s resolute face overshadowed even Hua Jiebing’s sword intent, lingering in his mind and refusing to be driven away...
Once, his talent had shone brilliantly, yet now, stained again and again, he feared he had lost the esteem of many. Advancement was hopeless; to become a prince’s advisor, or even to keep his place in the Qin household or his standing at the Academy, was at risk.
This time, he had suffered because of a mere novice.
It rankled—did that boy deserve to leave a mark upon his Dao heart?
“Old Luo.”
Luo Qingchen exhaled and called softly.
The door opened, and a burly figure entered—the coachman who had once driven his carriage.
“Sir,” the coachman said, bowing respectfully.
Luo Qingchen rose, wiping the cold sweat from his body with a towel, and asked calmly, “I told you to keep an eye on that boy. What news?”