“It was the next few years where things really hit a groove,” Jun Xiezi said, touching the fourth through sixth canvases. The mood in the paintings grew harder and darker. While the first three depicted a man who dabbled in thuggery, the next three highlighted a deep change in character. The man no longer doubted himself. He grew harder and more confident, and his posture seemed to reflect the violence he’d grown increasingly comfortable with committing. The seventh and the eighth highlighted these features even more. The man’s appearance was growing ugly, almost devilish. Cha Ming could see a subtle turning point. The ninth painting would define the man’s character for the rest of his life.
“Ling Yu,” Jun Xiezi said. “What would you like me to paint on my next canvas? What type of man would you like to become this year? They say nine is the perfect number. Nine defines all facets of a person’s character.”
Ling Yu had been staring at the paintings all this time. His expression had grown dimmer and dimmer with each painting that so perfectly captured his history and his descent into darkness.
The eighth had been particularly hard on the man. His eyes twitched, and his hands shook. “I’ve never hurt anyone too bad,” Ling Yu said. “Not too bad.”
If Cha Ming wasn’t looking the man straight in the face, he’d guess the man was crying.
“But you have hurt others,” Jun Xiezi said. “I can feel it in each painting, the deepening darkness. You were driven by necessity at first, which was why I let you take some of my earnings those three times. But after the fourth time, it seemed like you wouldn’t change your ways. You grew dependent on my money, dependent on the thuggery. And in the subsequent paintings, you can you see the result of your actions and the man you’re becoming.”
The ones accompanying Ling Yu were shifting around uncomfortably. They clearly wanted to leave, but Cha Ming saw that Jun Xiezi had used his powerful soul to lock them in place.
“What is your choice? What do you want me to paint this time? You won’t be taking stones from me again either way. I’ve been painting this for nine years, and today, I will finish it.”
Ling Yu’s throat trembled. His eyes watered, and he suddenly fell to his knees. Then, the man who’d hardened over the eight consecutive paintings did something no one would have thought possible. He wept. He wept tears of regret that poured onto the wooden floorboards beneath him. He cried out years of pent-up frustration and regret.
As he blinked away the tears, he saw that Jun Xiezi had already finished the ninth painting. He’d painted the weeping man and his plea for redemption, his willingness to change. This wasn’t a man whose character would be locked in for the rest of his life, but one who was undergoing a metamorphosis, a transformation, like a caterpillar into a butterfly.
“Go,” Jun Xiezi said. “And never come back to my shop. If you regret how you’ve treated others, make it up to them. Do you understand?”
The man wiped his eyes and nodded. Then, to Cha Ming’s surprise, he kowtowed to Jun Xiezi. “Thank you,” he said.
“No need to thank me,” Jun Xiezi replied. “Now, are you going to scram, or do I have to kick you out?” He sent his resplendent force out at the men, who instantly fell over themselves as they scrambled to get out of the room. Ling Yu was no exception. After giving one last deep bow, he shut the door, leaving the bewildered Cha Ming and a scowling Jun Xiezi alone inside.
The scowl turned into a smile the moment the door was shut. “Well, that went well.”
“That’s an interesting way to make a painting,” Cha Ming said. “Most people try to flesh out what they’ve experienced, not stage the experience in the first place.”
“It’s interesting to capture the lives of others as they are changing,” Jun Xiezi said. “And some people need a bit of a push. Like writing a book, painting is a way to live a second life. Your own experience isn’t the only valid one.”
As Cha Ming stewed on this thought, Jun Xiezi made tea. They drank and chatted for the remainder of the evening. When they stopped, the sun was rising above the Redwood Forest. Soft streaks of yellow light peeked through the cluttered branches that loomed above them.
“I think it’s about time I went,” Cha Ming said. “I have an old friend to visit, and by my count, I haven’t seen his face in over a hundred and twenty years.”
“Go on ahead,” Jun Xiezi said, nodding. “I’ll stay here for a few more days and head back to Quicksilver. Heavens know when I’ll finally be able to retire.”
Cha Ming chuckled. The man was always talking about retiring, but it was obvious to everyone that he enjoyed his work. “Good luck with your paintings,” Cha Ming said, clasping the man’s hand.
“Good luck with life,” Jun Xiezi replied. They shook hands, and Cha Ming left the treetop village by flying through the canopy above it. A multitude of birds flew out around him as he entered misty skies still red with the rising sun. He heard a yip in the distance. Huxian appeared along with a frog, a mouse, a bird, and a purple mist. The mist was bunched up like a tiny purple pyramid.
“It took you long enough,” Huxian said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Huxian and his friends hadn’t been able to cross the demon-repelling barrier—at least, not without destroying it. Therefore, they’d decided to play in the redwoods and bully the local wildlife.
Cha Ming shook his head. “The essence of living is difficult to capture. I doubt I’ll find it by staying here.”
“Then where to next?” Huxian asked.
“Next?” Cha Ming said. “Next, we live. Let’s find Wang Jun. It’s high time I pay back the favor
