Chương 32: Chapter 31: The Painter

Six months had passed. Yang hefted another crate onto his shoulder. The weight pressed down but didn't strain. His enhanced strength made the work easy physically. Mentally was another matter. He carried the crate from the warehouse to the storage building. Set it down carefully. Returned for another. The same monotonous cycle he'd repeated for months. The warehouse foreman called out the end of shift. Yang collected his daily wages. Three copper coins. Barely enough for food and lodging.

But combined with Li San's wages, they could survive. The sun had already set. Darkness settling over Sun City. Lanterns lit the main streets. Casting warm light across the paved stones. Yang walked toward Grey Thorn Inn. His body moved automatically. His mind elsewhere. They'd spent two months searching every martial organization in Sun City. What they'd found was worse than disappointing. It was horrifying. The stronger martial schools were branches.

Parts of larger organizations spread across multiple cities and empires. They trained martial artists like crops to harvest. Selling their services to whoever paid. The bigger halls provided martial artists to clans during wars. Sometimes the same organization supplied fighters to both sides of a conflict. They only cared about profit. If a hired martial artist died, that was just business. Their families received nothing. No compensation from the hall. No pension from the employer.

Unlike soldiers whose families were entitled to support, hired martial artists were disposable. Powerful clans and royalty used them as cannon fodder. Keeping their own loyal forces safe while mercenaries died in their place. The smaller halls were different but no better. They hired out martial artists as security guards. Caravan protection. Bodywork for minor nobles and merchants. But their training was inferior. Their advancement rates abysmal. Most never reached true Martial Artist rank.

The smaller organizations didn't even mention service after reaching Martial Artist. Just years of service period. Because their rates were so poor that requiring only Martial Artist level service would leave them with no one to hire out. Yang and Li San were trapped between bad options. Sign with a large organization and become cannon fodder. Or sign with a small hall and likely never advance past Martial Fighter. They'd asked everywhere about alternatives. Other kingdoms. Different training methods.

Independent masters. The answers were consistent. All nearby kingdoms practiced the same contract system. It was how the martial world operated. He'd realized something terrible in the past months. How much they were lacking. How people were at the mercy of their circumstances. How difficult it was to escape those circumstances and make a better life. Even with his enhanced strength, he couldn't find a way to learn about martial power. Couldn't improve or even find a path to improve himself.

He was already fourteen years old. And according to what they'd learned, you needed to start young to become a martial artist. The optimal age was between eight and twelve. After fifteen, your chances dropped dramatically. Time was running out. Li San was doing better mentally. Happier. He'd never been outside Yunxi Village before. Had no previous life memories to compare against. Sun City was the greatest place he'd ever seen. The diversity. The wealth. The possibilities.

It had ignited in him a thirst to see more. If Yang asked to leave Sun City tomorrow, Li San would be ready instantly. Excited about seeing more of the world. Li San had even found work he enjoyed. Night watch helper at a merchant's warehouse. The guards were teaching him proper sword techniques. His daily wages were better than Yang's. Four coppers instead of three. Their opposite schedules meant they barely saw each other. Ships passing in the night. But the money helped.

Building their savings while maintaining their nest egg. Yang had become melancholic recently. He could travel to another city. Another kingdom. But the issue was that all nearby places used the same system. If he wanted to search beyond, the travel alone would take years. Maybe decades. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. He was fourteen. Li San was fifteen. They didn't have that much time. But whatever happened, Yang would keep trying.

If the martial path wasn't possible, he'd make his own path. He'd figured out how to become stronger in the forest alone. He could do it again. The martial artists didn't know about beast cores. They knew some stronger animals had stones in their heads. But considered them worthless. The stones lost their glow within weeks. Couldn't even be used for ornaments because of that. And eating them was impossible. Apparently it caused symptoms similar to rabies. Persisting until the person died a slow, painful death.

Yang had almost dry heaved when he'd learned that. The realization that he'd eaten cores like candy. That what should have killed him horribly had instead made him stronger. What made him different? Was it his rebirth? Something that happened in the empty space while he was dead? Whatever it was, Yang realized he was fundamentally different from normal humans. That realization was both liberating and isolating. Yang might be different. But Li San was normal.

If Li San wanted to learn martial arts, they had to find a way quickly. Within a year. Before he became too old to start. Yang saw a food stall selling meat buns. The smell was familiar. This was where Li San had bought food a few days ago. Excited to share something new. Yang approached.

"Two meat buns." The vendor wrapped them quickly. Yang paid. One coppers for both. He held the warm packages carefully. One for now. One for later when Li San returned from his shift erly in the morning. He walked through the streets. Still lost in thought. Trying to figure out what made him different. What he could do about it. How to help Li San without the traditional martial path. Suddenly, Yang felt a tug in his chest. He almost dropped the meat bun. Shocked.

It had been so long since he'd felt an actual tug from his inner instincts. Years of integration had made them feel like his own thoughts. His own intuition. Obvious warnings and guidance had become rare. But this was unmistakable. A pull. Clear and insistent. And it wasn't danger. Yang felt excitement in his chest instead of fear. This was opportunity. Something important. He followed the tug. Letting it guide his feet. Through side streets. Away from the main thoroughfares.

The pull led him to a rather empty stall. No customers. Just an owner sitting on a stool. Looking dejected. It was a painting stall. But Yang was shocked because what the merchant was selling wasn't the usual Chinese style paintings he'd seen throughout Sun City. These were Western style. Realistic. Detailed in a completely different way. Landscapes with perspective. Portraits with shadows and depth. Still lifes with texture you could almost feel. The paintings were lit by lanterns hanging above. Visible but dim.

They'd look better in daylight. The merchant stood as Yang approached. His expression shifting from dejection to cautious hope.

"Good evening," the merchant said. His accent was slight. Not from around here.

"Do you like them? I painted them myself." Yang studied the nearest painting. A mountain landscape. The detail was incredible.

"You did? They're rather different from what I've seen being sold in the city before." The merchant's expression turned sour immediately. Bitter.

"Are you also going to lecture me about how my work is soulless?" Yang blinked. Confused.

"What?"

"Everyone here says the same thing," the merchant continued. His voice rising with frustration.

"My style of painting is mocked as mere craftsmanship. Not art. They say my art is spirit-dead. Corrupting tradition." He gestured at his paintings. At the empty street around his stall.

"I came to Sun City because it's supposed to be open to all cultures. All styles. But the merchants won't buy my work. Say it has no soul. No qi. No life." The merchant's hands clenched.

"They don't understand. My art captures reality. Shows the world as it truly is. Not some idealized spirit representation. But they call it dead. Lifeless. Technical skill without meaning." He looked at Yang. His eyes searching.

"You're young. Maybe you don't know better than to appreciate foreign corruption. Or maybe you're just being polite before walking away like everyone else." Yang studied the merchant carefully. Really looked at him. The man was perhaps forty. Weathered skin. Calloused hands stained with paint. His clothes were worn but clean. Well-made originally but showing years of use. His eyes held pain. Artistic frustration. The look of someone whose passion was being rejected by the world.

But underneath that, Yang saw something else. A depth. A presence. Something that made his inner instincts continue pulling. Insisting this person was important.

"I'm not being polite," Yang said slowly.

"I genuinely think they're beautiful. The detail. The realism. I've never seen anything like them." and Yang was being truthful The merchant's expression shifted. Surprise replacing bitterness.

"You... you really think so?"

"Yes," Yang said honestly. He stepped closer to one painting. A portrait of an old woman. Every wrinkle visible. Every hair individually rendered. Her eyes seemed to follow you. Alive despite being paint on canvas.

"This is incredible," Yang said quietly.

"How long did it take?"

"Three months," the merchant admitted.

"I painted her from memory. My grandmother. She died years ago. But I wanted to capture her exactly as she was." Yang looked at the merchant. Really looked. And suddenly understood why his instincts had led him here. This wasn't about the paintings. It was about the painter.