“What makes a painting good?” Cha Ming asked at the end of the third day. He, too, had taken out a canvas. He was painting a familiar scene with his Clear Sky Brush, depicting the warm reception he’d received from the Hong family in Green Leaf City. It was a decent painting, but compared to those he painted of Yu Wen or his experience in Crystal Falls, it lacked something. This one was just a mortal-grade painting, a far cry from the peak-magic-grade treasures he sometimes created.
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” Jun Xiezi said, putting the finishing touches on his own painting. Like many of his creations, it featured ponds, lilies, and people bathing. The man never seemed to tire of painting some rendition of this scene. It, like most of the others he painted, became a mid-grade-magic treasure. “You can achieve the peak of spiritual painting through technique and mimicry. Or, you can fumble around blindly until you get there. The former is more reliable, while the latter is ephemeral but allows one to paint something beyond one’s technical skill. Only by combining the two can you make a true masterpiece.
“Where did you study?” Cha Ming asked.
Though Zhou Li had been a peak-grandmaster painter, he’d never found any literature on the subject in Haijing’s library.
“Painting is only taught through apprenticeship,” Jun Xiezi said, “as books are considered too shallow a medium to pass along the exquisiteness of the art. At lower levels, class sizes can be quite large, but higher-level arts are only taught to a select few. Teachers lecture as they paint and teach techniques on a whim. They usually do it at the end of their lifespan, however, when they feel they can contribute nothing more to society.”
“Strange,” Cha Ming said. “No one teaches for money?”
“Painters make money,” Jun Xiezi said with a smile. “But those who focus on money won’t ever reach the peak of their craft. It cheapens the art, much like it does poetry and writing. Selling your work is fine, of course, though many would rather detach themselves from the process and hang their works up in an art gallery and be done with it.
“Most successful painters are surprised at the success of the works. The works they’re most proud of get little attention, but works they casually painted, those filled with flaws and misconceptions, tend to attract the most buyers and collectors.” He shook his head. “It’s truly a strange thing, but I suppose it’s like the rest of life and all its wonders.”
“Can you teach me?” Cha Ming asked.
Jun Xiezi chuckled and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be a suitable teacher. You’re a strange man, you know. You’re too powerful, too lofty for your young age. You’ve seen too little of the world and too much of it at the same time. Besides, I feel you’d resent the technical aspects of painting. You’re the type of person who paints with your heart. And I want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Cha Ming mulled over these words. It was true that he enjoyed the process, and the thought of imitating someone else’s hand irked him. Still, specific tips would go a long way.
Just as he was about to ask, however, the door opened abruptly. A dozen men with angry looks on their faces walked in. Their leader was an arrogant-looking cultivator who’d reached the peak of core formation. Cha Ming frowned when he saw them. He looked to Jun Xiezi, who simply smiled and held up his hand, signaling that he’d take care of it. Ironically, to them, it probably seemed like a greeting.
“What can I help you gentlemen with?” Jun Xiezi said pleasantly.
“You know the drill,” the leader replied, puffing out his chest in an unsubtle effort to look tough. “Just like the past eight years, you give me a third of your profits, and we don’t mess up the place.”
The men behind him nodded with crossed arms. Cha Ming couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the situation. They could no more rob Jun Xiezi than a newborn child could scold him.
“I was wondering when to expect you,” Jun Xiezi said, still smiling. Then, to Cha Ming’s surprise, he summoned a pile of spirit stones from his spatial ring and placed it on a small table beside them. “I hope my results aren’t too disappointing.”
The leader grinned and picked out a few choice stones. “Look at what we have here,” he said, inspecting a high-grade spirit stone in the pile. “We don’t see a lot of these around here.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Jun Xiezi said. “I put it there because I wanted to ask you for a favor.”
The man frowned at that. “A favor? What kind of favor?”
“Nothing much, nothing much,” Jun Xiezi said. “You see, I’ve been working on a painting for the past nine years. I was hoping you could help me out with it. It’s almost done.”
“A painting, eh?” the man said, stroking his chin. “I’ve never considered myself much of painter, but I suppose I could try.”
“Don’t worry, I just need a model, not an assistant,” Jun Xiezi said, motioning to a spot beside him. He then walked to the back of the room where Cha Ming noticed there were nine stands. The older man waved his hand, and nine canvases appeared, facing the men. “The first time I saw you here, you were just an innocent man trying to make ends meet for your new family.”
Jun Xiezi’s brush flowed along the canvas, and many colors seeped onto it. The painting took three seconds to materialize before Jun Xiezi walked up to the next one. “The year after, it seemed you had something on your mind. You came here with friends that year. It looked like you were trying to impress them.” Once again, his brush touched the canvas,
