“Is that really a city?” the girl said, her voice filled with awe. “I don’t see any bridges or bark. How can they live there?”
“They live in stones on the ground,” Jun Xiezi whispered with a mischievous grin.
The girl’s frown deepened. “That seems really unsafe. How do they stay away from the monsters down below?” She shuddered. “I like it better here.”
Jun Xiezi chuckled. “That’s fine too. Do whatever makes you happy.” He then looked to the little boy standing beside her with an expectant look on his face. “I know you don’t much like paintings, but I know you like games.”
He waved his hand, and a deck of exquisitely painted cards appeared. He waved once more, and the cards collapsed into a deck, which the boy grabbed.
“I’ll go play right now!” the boy exclaimed. He ran toward a row of houses that were built of redwood, either directly within a trunk or on a platform built along a larger tree branch. The girl hesitated before ultimately chasing her brother.
Both Cha Ming and Jun Xiezi laughed as they walked past the remaining children hanging off the bridge, completely oblivious to them in their games, and headed toward where the buildings grew larger and denser. There, they saw busy people going about their daily lives. Bakers baked, merchants sold, and smiths shaped metal. That last one surprised Cha Ming, who’d always seen metal as the antithesis of wood.
“What, you think people can survive without metal up here?” Jun Xiezi said when Cha Ming asked.
“No, I just thought the high heat required for spiritual blacksmithing might damage the trees,” Cha Ming said. Though he wasn’t a spiritual blacksmith, there were commonalities between smithing and alchemy. Even without training with a hammer, he could generate flames that would melt peak-core-formation treasures given enough time. These massive redwoods were much less sturdy in comparison.
“Hah,” Jun Xiezi said. “These redwoods would survive an all-out war between the North and the South. There’s nothing on this plane that could take them all out. And if one tree was damaged, the others would all support it. The trees are like a community, Cha Ming. If one of them is hurt, the others all pitch in to help it get better. It’s been that way for thousands of years, and it’ll continue being that way for a long while yet.”
They continued down the busy streets, peeking into the various open-air shops they saw. Eventually, they came upon a small building with no sign. There, Jun Xiezi took out a dull iron key and unlocked it. He tapped his finger on the wall, and colors flowed from his hand onto the building’s exterior, which now seemed more like a canvas than anything else.
Vivid yellow, orange, and red colors appeared along with the green and reddish brown of the redwood trees. The sky in the painting was obscured with smoke, and fire ravaged the lands. Cha Ming blinked when he realized that Jun Xiezi had painted exactly what he’d imagined—the redwood trees were burning, and the source of the fire was a spiritual smithy.
“Won’t this upset people?” Cha Ming asked nervously.
Jun Xiezi shrugged. “If they’re not used to my antics by now, they never will be.” He flicked his hand as they walked in, and instead of turning on a light, the colors in the room grew brighter and more vivid. A tiny fireplace lit up, and dried up plants, which had been dead in their pots, came to life as though he’d never been gone in the first place. “Now make yourself at home. I’m about to get really busy.”
Busy was an understatement. By the time the man was sitting down with a brush in hand and a blank canvas before him, four people had already entered the shop. Jun Xiezi, not wanting to be bothered before finishing his first painting, grunted and summoned hundreds of paintings that flew onto special stands on the walls. Each one was accompanied by a note explaining the scene in question. The paintings were all highlights of his travels, available for very modest sums.
There was an unofficial system in this shop. For the most part, the clients walked in and chatted with the elderly painter, who was only too happy to share stories of his travels as he painted. He answered any questions they asked, and after three or so questions, they chose something from the walls and put their payment inside a bowl at the front of the room on their way out.
Every person that left meant one of the many people lined up outside could enter. The older man painted as he talked. Occasionally, he asked his own questions. The customers found themselves pouring out their greatest joys and most terrible sorrows.
Whenever he heard something especially moving, Jun Xiezi would pause and begin to paint what they described. He didn’t paint exactly what had happened, but his interpretation of the events. He brought life to their weal and woe in a way only he, the painter, would ever understand. These paintings were gifts, and each one was at least a magic-grade treasure. Occasionally, however, he was able to create something more vivid and lifelike. These paintings were core treasures, but he still gave them out to mortals and cultivators alike, who had no knowledge of their true value.
Three days passed in this way. During that time, Cha Ming watched Jun Xiezi paint. Occasionally, he brewed tea or picked up something for them to eat from a local establishment. He saw life through many different viewpoints and considered many things. He tried to use these to supplement his understanding of life,
