Chapter 1264: A painting

Yang Qing had expected his new guide to take him down a few flights of stairs leading up to the fourth floor, in the hopes that it would have given him the chance to catch a glimpse of the other floors in passing. However that didn’t happen.

Su Biya, his guide, instead led him up a single flight of stairs from the ground floor. At the top, they were greeted by a short, empty rectangular hallway with three doors—one to the left and two to the right. Each door had a blue orchid on it, and as Yang Qing observed them more closely, it became immediately clear that while they appeared similar on the surface, each orchid had distinct qualities that set it apart.

The orchid on the left door had a silent, reserved aura. Of the two on the right, one radiated energy and felt as if it were bursting with activity. At the same time, the other carried some mysteriousness beneath the surface, cloaked in a veil that only enhanced the mystery.

Given the explanation he’d been given about the themes of each floor, Yang Qing could more or less guess which door led where based on the characteristics of the orchids’ auras.

His assumption proved correct when Su Biya led him to the door with the orchid wrapped in that concealing veil.

Upon reaching the door, Su Biya whispered a soft melody that lasted about two seconds. It seemed to trigger a reaction from the orchid, whose petals fell away, revealing a light blue talisman that pulsed with a gentle glow.

“Daoist Yang Qing, welcome,” Su Biya said warmly as she placed her hand over the talisman, activating a mechanism that unlocked the door. It opened to reveal an ink-blue darkness. Yang Qing nodded and stepped inside.

As soon as his feet and body crossed the threshold, the darkness faded, revealing a floor that looked almost identical to the one he had just come from, at least where the furniture design was concerned.

The seating consisted of a mix of rattan and wicker chairs, along with futons and mats seemingly made from clearweave reed, whose sap extract was a popular ingredient in potions that calmed and cleared the mind.

As for the tables, some were round, others square, and those set beside mats or futons were low and rectangular in shape.

If Yang Qing were asked to mention a few obvious differences between this floor and the ground floor, it would be the décor on the walls, ceiling, and floor. The walls were covered with luminous reed vines that glowed in gentle hues of white-blue and orange. While there were still hanging lanterns providing light, they were few in number. Most of the illumination came from the luminous reed vines, which covered most of the walls and even extended partially onto the ceiling.

On the ground, specifically along the pathway leading to the tables, instead of wooden flooring, it was covered in what Yang Qing recognized as serenity moss grass. Even just by looking at it, he could tell it was likely soft to the touch, given its velvety appearance. Serenity moss grass was an excellent material for meditation mats. Not only did it help clear the mind with ease, but the comfort it offered made it ideal—especially for lower-realm cultivators, whose bodies had a propensity to stiffen from prolonged meditation.

However, of everything on this floor—breathtaking as it was—what truly captured Yang Qing’s attention was a painting on the left side of the wall. It depicted a village filled with people, each seemingly engaged in some mundane activity. One was drawing water from a well, another was fishing, another hunting, one was checking the ripeness of rice in the paddies, and another was feeding chickens. There was even a child being bathed, clearly against their will, if the sour expression on their face was any indication.

As Yang Qing stared longer, more figures began to appear on the canvas. Like the ones before, each was absorbed in some ordinary task. Silently, his soul stirred. A hazy sensation washed over him, and it felt as if everything beyond that painting had vanished, leaving only him and the canvas.

And that was when he saw it…

Something new—something that wasn’t part of the original drawing—had appeared on the bottom left corner of the painting. It began as a single curve, which slowly formed into a letter, then into a word, then a sentence, and finally a full paragraph.

“In lives too brief, in roots never grown deep, I saw what we might have been—A morning drawn from warmth, not the wariness that haunts me.A mother’s scolding. A child’s complaints. A rooster’s call before the dawn. A fisherman in hope.To many, this is all but noise.But to me, it is a heaven that seems so out of reach.Yet even so, I will still strive towards it, for one laughs and the other is yet to fade.What is precious? Precious is what the heart misses.May we find what we seek.”

As soon as Yang Qing finished reading the last sentence, the entire paragraph stirred. In a spiraling coil, it rolled inward and condensed into the image of a sun, which then began to rise slowly toward the northern edge of the painting—perfectly capturing the moment of dawn. Like the activation of a spell, the instant the sun reached the top, the painting came to life.

It began subtly: the soft cackle of hens, the faint splash of water as the fisherman’s pole broke the surface, the gentle rustling of leaves as the hunter quietly pushed them aside while moving deeper into the forest.

Then came the muffled laughter of friends, followed by the loud protests of a young baby being doused in cold water—cries that were soon drowned out by the thunderous threats of the towering creature looming above him: his mother.

The painting that had been still and cold just moments earlier was now warm and alive. Yang Qing could feel it—longing, warmth, despair, and resolve all wrapped into one, radiating from the canvas. Within him, a quiet, unwavering will stirred, bubbling to the surface as if seeking to defy the odds.

“Who drew this?” he softly asked in amazement.

Along with the sounds, he could now vividly smell the scents wafting from the painting: the smoke from firewood, the porridge and other meals cooking over it, the earthy mud of the rice paddies, the sharp scent of manure from the pig pen, and the sweet floral fragrance of the osmanthus used in the protesting child’s bath.

The painting felt truly and genuinely alive in every sense of the word.