Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Youth Meant No Offense to Qingchen; Once More, He Witnesses the Lady’s Golden Years Flow By

The breeze within the waterside pavilion grew ever gentler, as if awakening the world to the blessings and vitality of spring. Its touch brought a sense of comfort that seemed to invigorate every pore.

Inside the main hall, the fragrance of ink was rich and pervasive.

A special gift?

An Le was puzzled by Lady Hua’s enigmatic smile and her words. In truth, when he gifted Lady Hua the painting of ink bamboo, he sought no return. Simply having Lady Hua guide him along his path of cultivation, illuminating his way like a lone lamp, was enough for the young man to offer his painting without expecting anything in exchange.

Yet Lady Hua was clearly unwilling to accept his gift without reciprocation.

She admired the ink bamboo painting on the table, and though she appreciated An Le’s sketches for their lifelike quality—especially the way they captured the sorrow of her parting with her husband—this ink painting brought her far greater joy. An Le’s ink bamboo was unique, perhaps even founding a new school of ink bamboo painting. Many in Great Zhao painted bamboo, but few did so in ink.

The waterside pavilion’s main hall was quiet, with only the sound of a few breaths lingering in the air.

An Le, clad in white with wide sleeves, stood waiting for Lady Hua’s promised special gift. Yet after a while, she made no move. He looked at her, puzzled.

Lin Chui Feng and Lin Qing Yin were equally bewildered, curious as to what special gift the Lady would bestow upon An Le.

A cultivation method? Or perhaps a precious artifact?

But neither seemed particularly special.

Lady Hua admired the painting, looked up at An Le, and smiled. “Why are you staring? Sit down and have some tea. You will know what the gift is in three days. I cannot give it to you now.”

An Le heard this and did not doubt her, trusting Lady Hua would not toy with him.

Three days later, he would know. Could the Lady’s gift be related to the opening of the Sixth Mountain and the selection of its guardian?

Did she intend to help him become the guardian of the Sixth Mountain?

Unable to discern the answer, An Le let the question go.

The rest of the time, Lady Hua kept An Le in the pavilion for tea and discussion of art.

Miss Xi Xiang, graceful in her movements, prepared tea with exquisite skill. Her artistry brought peace to An Le’s mind.

During this, Lady Hua explained some of the difficult points in the “Sword Cascade Painting,” along with small techniques for visualizing the sword diagram, greatly benefiting An Le.

As the spring rain gradually ceased, the air was filled with a fresh, washed fragrance.

Dusk approached, and faint rays of sunlight slipped through the evening clouds, painting the sky and clouds with a rosy glow.

An Le bade farewell to Lady Hua, and with Lin Qing Yin and Lin Chui Feng seeing him off, he left the Lin residence.

He carried a folded oil-paper umbrella, a battered bamboo sword at his waist, and a black-and-white jade pendant hanging from his belt.

His noble bearing drew frequent glances from passersby on the street.

He strolled along the long street, as was his habit, stopping by the Yan Chun Lane for a jug of wine, then leisurely detoured to Ding Magistrate Alley. He recalled the elder at the Imperial Ancestral Temple saying that the old yellow wine at Yan Chun Lane was excellent, but the meat was lacking; for good meat, one had to visit the beef shop in Ding Magistrate Alley.

Thus, An Le went to Ding Magistrate Alley, found the beef shop recommended by the elder, bought a pound of marinated beef, and contentedly returned to Imperial Temple Alley.

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The Literary Academy, among the black-and-white pavilions.

After the spring rain, the glow of sunset poured through layers of clouds, shining on the windowsills and casting rainbow-hued lights through water droplets.

Luo Qing Chen set down his brush, his expression somewhat grim.

He looked at the ink bamboo and stone painting he had just copied, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes.

The Academy’s scholars gathered around, offering critiques and appraisals of Luo Qing Chen’s ink bamboo.

“Not bad, truly deserving of praise—your ink bamboo is seven or eight parts alike.”

“But the mood is lacking, missing that upright, noble spirit that stands tall despite winds from every direction…”

“No blame to you, Luo Qing Chen. Your heart has suffered repeated blows; that feeling is hard to grasp.”

...

The Academy’s scholars were discerning. Luo Qing Chen’s imitation was decent, though his technique still lagged behind An Le’s. Yet for a first attempt, it was well done.

He captured the form, but not the spirit; for a painter, the spirit is paramount.

Luo Qing Chen was not a professional painter, so no one pressed him. Moreover, his defeat by Li You An had damaged his composure and clouded his heart, making it difficult to embody the noble character reflected in the painting.

Knowing is one thing; voicing it in critique is another.

Luo Qing Chen’s gloomy expression betrayed a sense of humiliation, as if his dignity were being dragged out and lashed repeatedly.

Yet what troubled him most was his inability to replicate An Le’s painting—the gap between them was vast.

“Master, the student has finished the painting.”

Luo Qing Chen put down his brush, clasped his hands in salute to the two masters seated at the main desk.

“My family has matters to attend to. I must take my leave today,” he said, then turned and departed, his robe fluttering behind him.

The second master glanced at the third master. “Why drag him out to suffer such humiliation?”

The third master stroked his beard and smiled. “You know my intent. Luo Qing Chen is talented, but his heart is fragile, easily discouraged. If he could calm himself, reflect on the painting’s spirit, and contemplate its resilience, he might cleanse the dust from his heart.”

“Sadly, he failed to seize the opportunity.”

“Since entering the Prime Minister Qin’s residence as a consultant, Luo Qing Chen’s dedication to cultivation has grown impure. What a pity.”

The third master sighed softly.

The second master was silent for a moment. “Luo Qing Chen knows this, which is why, three days from now, he will go to the Sixth Mountain to compete for the guardian’s position. If he enters the Holy Mountain, his heart will be cleansed, restored to clarity.”

The third master only smiled in response.

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Luo Qing Chen descended the stone steps. After the spring rain, mist shrouded the Literary Academy’s foothills. Black-and-white buildings dotted the landscape, hidden among deep clouds like an immortal realm.

The burly coachman sat quietly at the carriage, waiting as Luo Qing Chen had said he would return soon. Time had passed unnoticed.

Though puzzled, the coachman uttered no complaint.

Up the cold mountain, the stone path slanted. Luo Qing Chen, dressed in fine robes and with a gloomy face, returned without a word and entered the carriage.

“To the Prime Minister Qin’s residence.”

Luo Qing Chen’s tone was cold, tinged with anger.

“Yes, sir.”

The burly coachman wore a bamboo hat still damp from the spring rain. He asked nothing, simply acknowledged and set the ornate carriage in motion toward the Prime Minister’s residence.

Inside, Luo Qing Chen sat upright with eyes closed, a string within his heart vibrating violently.

The humiliation he suffered today was not caused by the youth, but the painting was. The contrast of spirit in the artwork left Luo Qing Chen feeling hurt and resentful.

The youth’s painting of bamboo embodied noble character, upright and unyielding, while the world said Luo Qing Chen lacked such spirit, unable to capture the essence of ink bamboo…

Whether those words were carelessly spoken or subtly mocking, they disturbed him like discordant music.

The Academy’s scholars spoke lightly; let this youth face Li You An and see if his heart would remain steadfast! Would he still dare draw his sword?

Luo Qing Chen took a deep breath and forced down his twisted emotions.

He knew he had lost his composure.

Images kept replaying before his eyes: the youth standing tall in the spring rain, straight-backed beneath his pressure, never bowing.

That youth in the painting was dazzling.

Though it was not the dust that clouded his heart, it lingered relentlessly, leaving him unsettled.

“In three days, the Sixth Mountain will open. If I enter the Holy Mountain, my heart will be cleansed, and my former glory will return. All mockery and humiliation will vanish like clouds after rain.”

Inside the luxurious carriage, Luo Qing Chen slowly opened his eyes, a flash of sharpness in his gaze.

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As the sun sank and dusk settled, the crowds on Qingbo Street dwindled.

An Le returned to the small courtyard in Imperial Temple Alley, carrying a jug of old yellow wine and marinated beef from Ding Magistrate Alley.

The bodies in the courtyard had long been cleared away, and after a day of spring rain, not a trace of blood remained.

Leaves on the old locust tree still bore droplets of rain, shining brilliantly in the evening light.

An Le brought out a small table, set out the wine and beef, and placed two bamboo stools, waiting for the elderly man from the Imperial Ancestral Temple.

After a while, the old man had not yet arrived. An Le sat quietly in the bamboo chair, eyes closed.

His mind stirred.

The golden essence of time he had drawn from Lady Hua at the pavilion suddenly emerged, radiating golden light.

Previously, An Le had drawn a thread of golden time from Lady Hua, condensing the Dao fruit of Time: [Sword Dancer].

This was the first time he drew a second thread of golden time from the same person.

Time, like liquid gold, condensed into an incense stick, burning softly, its smoke curling upward.

Images appeared, like stones cast into a still lake, stirring gentle ripples.