Chapter Seven: The Painting That Deceives the Eye, A Blue Lantern on the Path of Cultivation

Lin Chasing Wind had always been loud and carefree—everyone in the Lin household was used to it. But with that shout, all at once, the entire Tianbo Pavilion paused; every artist looked up in astonishment, their faces tinged with strange expressions.

What outrageous words were these?

Was there any greater humiliation?

Master Liu Qingyan’s face flushed crimson; the hand holding his brush trembled uncontrollably.

Lin Qingyin, shaken from the awe of An Le’s painting by Chasing Wind’s holler, hurriedly shot her a glare. “Master Liu, please don’t take offense. The girl speaks nonsense,” Lin Qingyin apologized softly.

Only then did Liu Qingyan’s expression ease a little, though his lips still quivered. His works were adored by countless courtesans, his reputation unassailable—never before had anyone described his art in such a manner.

Like dung? This girl was far too crude!

An Le, regaining composure, looked at Lin Qingyin and Chasing Wind beside him, and clasped his hands in salute. “Keep painting! Your work is just too good!” Chasing Wind, now excited, urged An Le to continue.

She knew she’d misspoken, but—did it matter? If Liu Qingyan was angry, so be it. What was wrong with speaking the truth?

Chasing Wind’s status in the Lin household was hardly ordinary. Though nominally a maid, orphaned from birth, she possessed talent for cultivation and had been taken into the Lin family, raised alongside the young masters and Ninth Sister; the ladies treated her as their own, cultivating together, her standing high—none saw her as merely a servant.

This gave Chasing Wind remarkable confidence—her cultivation, and the fire poker in her hand, bolstered her further.

Lin Qingyin ignored Liu Qingyan now, for she too believed An Le’s artistry surpassed his.

Her eyes shone as she watched An Le, delight blooming within. An Le’s painting was so lifelike. If not for its monochrome, Lin Qingyin might have thought, as Chasing Wind did, that Lady Hua had truly been pressed into the paper.

Especially those eyes—Lin Qingyin remembered them vividly! In the days when the master went off to war, Lady Hua’s gaze had been just so: full of sorrow and worry, her eyes spoke all the anxiety and grief of sending her husband forth.

Now, that look leapt from the paper, stirring Lin Qingyin’s memories.

“It’s truly remarkable,” she murmured.

In the distance, Liu Qingyan felt these words whip him again and again, his expression growing darker.

Yet, he could not believe a young painter like An Le, working with charcoal, could surpass his decades of meticulous brushwork.

“This artist was invited by Miss Lin, so naturally she favors him,” Liu Qingyan snorted, focusing more earnestly on his own painting.

An Le, once again immersed in his work, knew realism in sketching depended on truth, on likeness—both in form and in spirit.

The eyes are the windows to the soul; once outlined with precise highlights and lines, the essence emerges. It could nearly be called a black-and-white photograph.

He took a steamed bun as an eraser, rubbing away excess lines; his fingertips gently smudged, the strokes blending into delicate gradients.

Stepping back, An Le withdrew his mind from the scene shaped by years, feeling somewhat exhausted, yet exhilarated.

This was his proudest work, past or present.

On the paper, Lady Hua sat upright in a grand chair, clad in luxurious robes, tea in hand, her brows creased with melancholy. Her eyes, full of untold stories, met the viewer’s gaze; if one looked closely, it seemed as if, beneath a drizzling rain on an ancient road, a man on horseback played a flute and rode slowly away.

The lines were clear, not chaotic, detailed enough to capture a single teardrop clinging to her lashes.

Lady Hua had appeared behind An Le, silently watching her likeness on the page.

The woman gazed, lost in thought, the image reminding her of the days she bid farewell to her husband, weighed by sorrow.

“This is me…” Lady Hua whispered.

After a long moment, she withdrew her gaze, looking deeply at An Le—that young painter, as if he’d witnessed her grief in person during those farewells.

But clearly, that was impossible.

Judging by his age, he hadn’t even been born then.

So, the youth must have discerned her emotion from her features and painted it forth?

“A work such as this blurs reality and illusion—remarkable,” Lady Hua praised without hesitation.

Her words sent a stir through Tianbo Pavilion; the artists stared in disbelief. To earn Lady Hua’s praise meant the painting was extraordinary indeed.

Many artists stepped from their desks, moved behind An Le, and fixed their gaze upon the artwork.

Upon seeing it, they all fell silent.

For the painting was astonishingly lifelike! As if the real person had been transferred to paper—a style entirely new to them.

Several artists shook their heads and sighed, humbled by their own inadequacy.

The Lin household had invited painters to create portraits for the young masters soon to depart for war, so that their likenesses might be preserved, cherished in times to come. An Le’s work met this purpose perfectly; by comparison, the other artists realized their own could not compete.

Master Liu Qingyan finally finished his painting.

Unwilling to concede, he walked over, his gaze landing on An Le’s work.

At a glance, his eyes narrowed.

Like the other artists, he was silent for a long time, then quietly rolled up his own proud creation.

“Painting with a brush is the true tradition of Great Zhao,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Oh, old man, your mouth is the hardest part of you, isn’t it? Painting is about putting art on paper—who says it has to be a brush?” Chasing Wind retorted without mercy.

Master Liu paused, remembering how Chasing Wind had likened his work to dung.

“Just a trick—unfit for refined halls,” he grumbled, full of dissatisfaction, brushing his sleeves with a huff.

He then took his leave of Lady Hua, who only glanced at him indifferently. The other artists, seeing him depart, followed suit. Lady Hua made no effort to detain them, instructing servants to distribute carriage fare and send the painters away from the Lin estate.

Soon, the broad courtyard of Tianbo Pavilion was empty; everyone knew who had been chosen.

An Le’s vivid portrait had given them self-awareness.

Still, some artists who held themselves in high regard refused to concede the superiority of An Le’s work, claiming he merely used unconventional means to meet the Lin household’s requirements.

As Master Liu had said, only brush painting was orthodox and worthy of respect.

“May I ask your name, young master?” Lady Hua turned to An Le, her tone gentle.

“My name is An Le, from Chongzhou, here in Lin’an for the spring examination,” An Le replied, hands clasped.

Lady Hua’s eyes widened in surprise. “So you are a young scholar—no wonder your painting is so masterful, it nearly brings the subject to life.”

“Since that is so, I must trouble you to paint portraits for the Lin family’s young masters,” Lady Hua said.

An Le bowed deeply. “I will give my utmost effort.”

Lady Hua continued to admire the painting. “This piece is excellent—I like it very much. Let me have it, and in return, I will offer you a gift.”

“This is not payment for painting the young masters’ portraits, but a private exchange between us,” she explained.

An Le hesitated. “Lady Hua need not be so formal. I painted this for you, and if you like it, please accept it.”

Lady Hua waved her hand. “Do not be modest, Young Master An. I never accept favors without recompense—it is a Lin family rule.”

“Silver or gold, whichever you prefer. If I find the painting worthy, it is worthy.”

An Le’s eyes brightened, and he relented. After a moment’s thought, he bowed again, speaking earnestly. “Lady Hua, I was fortunate enough to begin cultivation just yesterday, but having missed the foundational studies, I lack advanced texts. My future path in cultivation is uncertain. Today, I dare to ask: could I exchange this painting for a suitable cultivation manual? If the painting is not worth such a price, payment for the young masters’ portraits may be included.”

His words surprised all present in Tianbo Pavilion.

Chasing Wind and Qingyin looked at An Le anew, not expecting this youth to wish to continue on the path of cultivation.

To undertake cultivation at his age was indeed late—his prospects would be uncertain. It might be wiser to focus on scholarship, aiming for distinction in the imperial examinations.

Lady Hua’s gaze lingered on An Le, easily sensing the faint, pitiable spiritual energy within him.

He truly had only just begun cultivation.

But Lady Hua suddenly recalled the moment she met An Le’s eyes—a calm soul, yet a flicker of subtle power.

This youth…

Lady Hua smiled gently, beckoning An Le to follow her into the main hall of the pavilion.

After settling in a graceful chair, she invited An Le to sit and ordered tea for him.

“How old are you, Young Master An?”

“Do you know the ranks of cultivation?” Lady Hua sipped her tea, asking softly.

An Le stroked the porcelain cup, replying steadily, “I am eighteen. Having devoted myself to study for the examinations, I missed the foundational classes of cultivation and am unfamiliar with its ranks.”

In the tranquil Tianbo Pavilion, the youth’s quest for knowledge was like wild grass on flat land—revived by the spring wind.

Lady Hua smiled gently. “Since that is the case, let me light a green lamp on your path of cultivation.”