dusk

The east is bright.

If the painter so cared, he would surely notice the storyteller's figure hidden in the shadows all along, gazing at him blankly, daring not even to breathe loudly, having watched the entire night.

But he long since had no mind to care.

I've... finished.

I've painted...

Upon the fabric meticulously ink-washed and detailed again and again, there in the painting is Mr. Ruan reclining by his desk, gazing out of the window and to far away.

What lies there?

Looking at the eyes of the Mr. Ruan within the painting, the Mr. Ruan outside knows. There is every light he has ever seen, from his birth to this very moment.

He carefully picks up the completed painting, and relying on his familiarity with the arrangement of his room, ventures forth a step—

Careful not to knock anything over.

Sir?!

I'll go and hang the painting for you.

That friend of mine lives right here. You don't need to take me any further now, sir.

You're sure you can rely on him?

If even he can't be depended on... then there's no one in this entire city I can trust anymore.

Mr. Ruan, this work of yours can be said to have both body and soul, to be a pinnacle of an achievement. Will you only be content if there are truly others to nod their approval?

(Chuckle)

In the end, I just can't get away from my bone-obsequious self.

(Mutter) Even now... bone-obsequious?

Mr. Ruan, what's wrong with—

Help! Someone's thrown up blood and fainted!

Ah Qi, run to the clinic and fetch a doctor!

What did you do to him? What happened to him?

I didn't do anything! All I did was say a few words!

What did you say?

His character was unbearable, and no matter how realistic his painting was, it would never be brilliant, not to mention the fact it was a self-portrait, which practically screamed him blowing his own horn...

I'd just invited Mr. Zhang from the city's painting circles over, and that's what he quietly told me before he left.

Well, at least Mr. Zhang knew to be quiet! And you said all that straight to him?!

No! I was just thinking about it—how could I tell him any of that?! I only said, his painting was...

The very top of the... bottom end.

The very top of the bottom end?

Oh, okay, great, fine, the very very top of the bottom!

Not like anyone even needs to care about this stupid city.

How can a being from my brush be so malicious?

Forget it. You're not really malicious, you just have more on your mind than the Biteys. The real scary sight is someone who hasn't slept properly.

I'll just call you 'Envy.'

Now go!

The newly named Ink Spirit wriggles its body, turns around and heads over to the back.

The Biteys and Angrys huddled there appear duly fearful, and scatter in a snap like smoke.

Footsteps?

(Mutter) The old bastard's in way too much of a hurry...

(Mutter) I was just adding a few more strokes inside my own painting. Is anything ever <i>not</i> of interest to...?

Sir?

No, wait, you're not the old bastard—

You're... Mr. Ruan?

It's been over twenty years. You're still alive?

Much thanks to your blessing, I'm technically still alive for now.

Take a seat.

I'll be fine.

The mountain rock's ice-cold, and the air's frigid and thick. These old bones of mine won't hold up to much flailing.

Mountain rock?

(Mutter) Right, he's totally blind. Of course he couldn't see it...

(Mutter) So how exactly... did he get inside my painting?

Am I interrupting?

Were you talking about something important? Did I eavesdrop?

No, no.

I'm just curious. How have you pulled through, over these past twenty years?

It's a funny story, come to mention.

That day, after I woke up in hospital, the doctor said I'd practically ended up half-dead, and that I absolutely needed to recover my presence of mind, and was never to get angry again.

I felt disheartened myself, anyway. I abandoned my fame, gave up on painting, sold off all my property, refunded that one sum of money, and left the city.

Even that painting I'd spilled my blood, sweat and tears over, I sold at the lowest price to someone else.

In my heart at the time, I thought, wherever I ended up, that'd be where my bones would lie.

In that regard, I shouldn't have interfered so much back then. You would've been better off if I left you alone.

You needn't feel apologetic, sir.

When did I apologize to you again?

You try to cover it, but the art of listening you imparted on me back then, I've never once let slip in the years since.

*cough* Ahem.

After I left, I quickly ran out of travel funds, but I wasn't six feet under quite yet. It pains me to say, but I had to take up the brush once again.

Only, this time I don't seek out any noble or the like anymore. As long as I sit in the street with my canvas and brush, people will naturally come to me for still life portraits.

And you're still the 'blind painter?'

Haha. The painter may truly be blind now, but those requesting paintings may not necessarily see it, that's all.

You don't tell them?

If they're satisfied with what I paint, that's good enough. What does it matter if the painter's blind or not, really.

People often think I paint well, and want me to draw something dead and lifeless like their courtyard, and all I can do is confess my blindness at that point, and give them a fright.

So it sounds to me like their praise still inflates you with pride?

You've asked me so many questions, sir, but that one is the best.

The mountain winds blow through, a light rustling from the room's furnishings in response.

Do you remember that funny term, 'bone-obsequious?'

I'll never forget it.

I sought others' recognition by every means I could back then, as if I wouldn't survive without the nod from them. My mind to flatter seeped into my bones. They nailed me with those two very words, 'bone-obsequious.' It left me tossing and turning at night.

But only afterwards, once I'd left home, and that narrow little patch of world, did I find that it was far from just me. Everyone's either looking to please or be pleased.

Is there truly anyone who'll take it all in stride? Maybe. But I haven't met them.

Your life starts in infancy following everything your parents say, then comes youth and bowing down to your sweetheart, then you're swept up in the prime of your life trying to cater yourself to the current style, and once you're old, you might well still be going gentle as you can on your children.

We please and please and please, but we only do it so those we worry about give us their recognition, and that recognition's only for our own self-comfort.

I've not a care now. When I'm flattered, yes, I'm tickled pink. When I'm berated, yes, I'm the most ashamed in the land.

But after a nap, I feel easy again, and what others say crosses my eyes and vanishes like smoke.

At this point, only my heart's left carrying on my old bone-obsequious self. Just the heart.

A great swig of wine should've followed hearing your piece.

Only at these times do I think it's a shame that sister of mine isn't here.

I have nothing to give in return after hearing your cautionary tale.

Let me show you out.

No rush, no rush.

Besides, you did me that kindness after all, sir. How could I have the nerve to be taking a present from you?

There seems to be some sound coming from your side.

It's like the wind blowing a painting scroll, yet like an animal's movements, yet with some of your own feelings too.

I couldn't repay you for your great grace back then, no matter how. Let me at least draw a portrait of this being, and gift it to you? How would you feel about that, sir?

Go ahead.

The painter makes a few scarce strokes, the technique neither the meticulous, nor the freehand kind.

How's my painting?

Alike. Extremely alike.