rogue_5

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'm a fool who can't make sense of this <i>thing</i> of yours.'

'Would a fool think up of a way to smith better?'

'My back hurts.'

'If you've got backache, why didn't you rest instead of coming here to play with furrows?'

'...It took me so much effort to think up of a better way to work iron, and before I could even give it a proper test, here you come with something much better. Pisses me off.'

The woman cannot help but laugh: 'That's it? Just too stubborn?'

'That's right, just too stubborn. Wait until I'm old and gray, then come find me.'

'Old and gray?' The woman furrows her brow for a moment before coming to a sudden realization. 'Look at you, you rough little smith you! Never saying what you mean, and always giving people a headache! You wanna improve your skills, so you want to have a little head-to-head with me, but you've got no confidence so you say some kinda nonsense about being 'old and gray' first, right? Just say you want to be self-reliant! I've seen lots of people like you all across Yan, but you're the most awkward of them all!'

The smith blushes and turns away from the woman, packing up his pickaxe before silently returning to work.

'How 'bout I treat you to a meal? I just learned a new recipe for Shangshu pepper and cornel hotpot, and hell, forget you, not even that mandarin from a few days ago has tried it!'

The woman conjures up a cauldron, some beastmeat, peppercorns, and bright-red oil of cornel. Before long, a tantalizing smell wafts through the air.

'Which manor did you sneak out of, miss?'

'What does it matter? I'm asking you, you wanna eat or not?'

Only after a few mouthfuls slick with hot oil and a few goblets of unfiltered wine is the smith finally ready to heft his pickaxe. Once he fades away into the distance, the woman suddenly gives herself a third slap on the head:

'Crap, it's always been others begging me for help, but today I'm the one having to beg and help someone else?!'

'Who here plays mahjong?'

Nobody speaks up, for nobody knows why the Grand Tutor himself has called the entirety of the Sui Regulator into the hall in the middle of the night to ask this question.

'Let me rephrase that. Who taught mahjong to that proxy?'

The least senior of the Candleholders present raises a trembling hand.

'It wasn't like I wanted to teach her, she just barged in on a session I was playing at home last month...'

'Then this is your responsibility.'

The game begins, and the young Candleholder cannot stop his skin from breaking out into a cold sweat. He looks at his three 'friends' at the table: the Grand Tutor, the High Minister of Works, and that inscrutable proxy. He is unsure just how many horrific sins his ancestors must have committed to leave him playing mahjong with these three in the middle of the night. What's even worse is that the proxy said they'd be playing until she was satisfied. What did she mean by that? Until she gets a big hand? How big is big enough? Heaven forbid she'd only be satisfied with a <i>tianhu</i>! Does she know just how rare it is for the dealer to win on the first draw?! They'd be playing until next year!

He notices the High Minister is dead-set on feeding tiles to Nian, but she doesn't seem particularly interested in them. The Grand Tutor is as stiff as a mountain, but mahjong is not a game you can play on your lonesome...

'<i>Gang</i>. Let's see... Oh, <i>gang shang kai hua</i>. Got my winning tile from the dead wall. Boooooring.' Nian pushes her tiles over.

She gets a <i>gang shang kai hua</i> and she calls it <i>boring</i>? The Candleholder really wants to grab her by the collar and ask her that, but who would dare run their mouth here? All he can do is swallow the bile rising up his throat, and shuffle, stack, and draw his tiles...

Three red dragons, three green dragons, two white dragons.

He wants nothing more than to slam open his hand in protest, but doing so would probably make Nian even more upset. He doesn't want his next year on the job to be a pain in the ass, either. Besides, now that his moment of hesitation was over, for some odd reason, the tiles he needs keep finding their way into his hand, until after only a couple of rounds, he is already in <i>tingpai</i>. Just one tile away from winning.

As for that loathsome proxy, she continues being depressed, carelessly speaking out loud...

'A white.'

An entire night's worth of resentment erupts at this moment. Heedless of the glances of 'Don't' the High Minister shoots him over and over again, heedless of the flash of relief flitting across the Grand Tutor's face, the Candleholder yells in anger: 'I win! <i>DA SAN YUAN</i>! BIG! THREE! DRAGOOOOONS!!!'

Nian stares at him, then breaks out into hearty laughter. 'A crusty old geezer and a rock who sees shit but doesn't say shit are the worst people to play mahjong with. It's the youngster who's got spirit! Alright, pack it up, everyone, we're done here!'

She tosses the white dragon tile onto the Candleholder's lap, turns about and leaves, the High Minister of Works hot on her heels. The Candleholder takes the tile, his mind full of thoughts like 'I'm finished.' Only now does he notice the white dragon tile is suffused with a dazzling light, quite unlike the other tiles on the table.

One month later.

'It appears converting the capital into a nomadic city can be performed ahead of schedule.'

'It shall be as Your Imperial Majesty commands.'

'Only one thing requires further explanation. This block on the front of the model. What is its purpose?'

'It is a special material used to reinforce the city walls. The Ministry of Works has developed the technology to manufacture it. The model only has the one piece, but the real city will boast thousands of them.'

'I see.'

The High Minister of Works lets out an internal sigh of relief, hoping the white tile's abilities will disguise the issue of its appearance, but...

'When the nomadic city is complete, these thousands of blocks, will they also have this rounded rectangle design?'

'I told you guys, it should look like a Feranmut.'

Nian looks at the giant mechanism in front of her, then shakes her head as she sighs.

'Aren't you wrinkly old prunes always saying stuff like 'the Way follows Nature'? Feranmuts have structures that work for both offense and defense. Besides, it's crazy cool!'

The wizened Tumu Tianshi does not understand a word of Nian's indulgent, nonsensical ramblings. He swallows the words he is about to say on how heavy the project weighs on the court and how inflexible the Ministry of Revenue is regarding the budget. How can he convey their concerns to this 'Xian'?

'The Chamber of Heaven's Designs is still waging a bitter war in the north, while Dahuang's plate remodeling must proceed sooner rather than later... Time is short.'

'Then you guys need to put your backs into it. It's not the kinda thing you can let me handle.'

Nian really was going to watch others do all the work. Throughout the entirety of this massive project, she has created not even a single rivet. After all, if the worst were to come to pass, and the siblings and their creations were to disappear from this land, any past interactions with humanity could bring about untold chaos. And so, some of their number have made preparations. Even Nian couldn't help letting her imagination run a bit wild.

The giant device, shaped like a mortise and tenon, hangs high above. It looks as if hewn from white jade, the luster on its surface flowing faintly. It is an exact replica of the model she gave the Ministry of Works six months ago, enlarged several thousand times.

It is a 'heart', a bold plan beyond the wildest imaginations.

Nian is not entirely sure what internal struggle and war of words took place before the Grand Tutor gave her this project. She could guess most of them, but she did not care enough to look at the details too closely. But since this was a deal where both sides had to trust in one another, before Nian gave her answer, she asked some of her older siblings what they thought.

After hearing about it, her second eldest sister gave her a comprehensive analysis of what issues might arise once the project is complete. Her fourth sister, Shu, has laid deep roots here, and upon hearing the project would help with Dahuang's agricultural development, she offered to help right away. Her eldest brother laughed but gave no answer, letting Nian make her own decision. As for Ling... Nian couldn't find her at all.

After ten minutes of intense thinking, Nian accepted the Grand Tutor's invitation.

This special nomadic city will become the most steadfast bastion of Yan's northern border, as well as the energy source that she and her twelve... eleven siblings would rely on to sustain themselves. The Feranmutologists only had the scales and claws from that ancient hunt to work with, but after a thousand years of study, they were able to make this idea a very real possibility.

The confluence of past and future, the anchor point of legend and truth.

From that mausoleum to this project known as the Twelve Pagodas and Five Cities, they have walked for a thousand years. From that terrible age after the flames of war died out to now, humanity has walked for a thousand years.

Time is slow, yet time is short.

Nian is lost in her thoughts.

'Tell it to me straight, where's the problem?'

'We still need a conductor that is strong enough to—'

'Here, take it.'

Nian seems to have anticipated this, and without any cajoling needed, she straightforwardly pulls out the materials from somewhere and hands them to the Tianshi.

'I can only cast stuff to this stage, but I'm sure you guys can put your heads together to figure out what to do with it without much issue.'

The old Tianshi accepts it, then looks at Nian again, as if trying to figure out if this Xian smith has finally stopped lazing about, before turning back toward the laboratory.

'Hey, once we get this Twelve Pagodas and Five Cities up and running, can we give it a test demo for technological feasibility or something... And once the reports are all filed, then we make it look like a Feranmut, how's that sound?'

When this consciousness peeled away from the source, it was in confusion. The last thing the source remembered before falling into slumber was the ashes of war covering the vast land, and the hatred of mankind piercing Its body. And so, this tomb also became a place far from conflict. She hides here, unsure of why she was born or where she should go. The other fragments either already had their answers, or were curious, most of them having left the tomb before her. She stays here, enduring the chaos locked within for days, months, years... but all that answers her is silence. Her ears try to listen for sounds from outside. Did blood no longer stain the land? Have the voices of hate gone far away? After an interminably-long silence, she can no longer bottle up her need to know. And so, step by cowering, cautious, trembling step, she pokes her head outside.

Light. The entirety of heaven and earth flooded with that fearsome light that stabs at her eyes, so accustomed are they to the dark that she can barely keep them open.

She resists the urge to retreat, because in that one blinding instant, she glimpses... color.

She decides to take another step, her eyes slowly adapting to the light. She wipes away her tears as she looks around her. Color streams into her eyes, so unlike the sunless black and white of the tomb's innards, and nothing like the yellow sands dyed blood-red in her memory. Here, the gold is that of clouds bordered by the sunlight, the red that of autumn leaves painted in dusken hues. So this is how the land outside the tomb had changed.

The mountains are awash with maple trees. At first glance, they are a uniform red, but closer examination reveals both dark and light shades, their branches and leaves shifting as human children at play shake them. As the sun begins to set before her eyes, distant plumes of smoke rise as the road fills with people hurrying home. She is amazed at the sensation she now feels, some... burning in her breast that stems from some unknown source.

She opens her eyes wide as she takes yet another step forward, wanting to see it all even more clearly, but she soon notices that twilight has hit its peak. Night will soon fall, sapping the land of its vibrant colors. Anxiety sinks in. She instinctively desires to cut the scene before her away from the darkening land, hiding away its rose-tinted everything in her sleeve. She raises her hand. The wind roars, and plants bow their heads, but the mountain's stones do not stir. She lowers her hand, dejected. She is too weak right now, and cannot stow the sight away.

Half the sun has fallen behind the mountains. She thinks again. Perhaps she can be like It, casting her own color upon the land. She closes her eyes tight and waves her hand once more. This time, she senses a change. She giddily opens her eyes, only to be disappointed once more. A deep indigo has been splashed against the mountains, dyeing the maples. The sight has none of its original vitality, and it brings her no joy to look upon it. And so, the color of 'Sui' fades from the land, restoring it to its original hues.

The sun continues to set, its final rays almost faded away. She looks at it, lost in a daze. Is there no way to keep this heat within her heart burning?

...That's right. It is this burning that she does not wish to part with. She closes her eyes once more, remembering that feeling of warmth. Omnipresent, vibrant, blissful—

There is one way to hold onto it. She is not sure when it happened, but her hand now grasps a brush.

If your thoughts are at hand, and there is joy as your brush hand works, then the ink shall take on form naturally. The sun has set behind the mounts, but a rose tint stays upon the paper.

Every year on the 3rd of March, an assembly of scholars, literati, and men and women of culture gathers at the foot of the mountain. This year, the participants in this symposium have even invited Mr. Lu, the most famous painter in the land. From the imperial court to the marketplaces, none do not know his name, and none do not admire his works. He has only just arrived when he is swarmed by those wishing to make his acquaintance. By the creek, he begins to drink as he paints. Amongst the flattering crowd, there is only one who shakes her head and sighs upon seeing his painting.

'And who might you be?'

'Just an ordinary painter.'

'You seemed dissatisfied with my humble painting. What guidance can you impart, oh wise master?'

The 'ordinary painter' sighs once more. Mr. Lu has his chin lifted high. Rather than seeking advice, it is evident he is waiting for her to embarrass herself.

'Your early works had fine ideas behind them, with plenty of promise. You were able to communicate yourself through your art. But now, they grow more vapid and dull with every brushstroke.'

Upon hearing this unfamiliar guest drop such blunt criticisms, the scholars begin to step forward to calm things down. However, Mr. Lu's interest has been piqued: 'Vapid? Dull? I'm afraid I learn much better from seeing an example than being lectured. May I trouble you for a lesson?'

It is clear from how hard he is being on this critic that it has been many years since Mr. Lu had heard even the slightest hint of a barbed remark. However, the 'ordinary painter' readily agrees, and the onlookers, also interested in this impromptu competition, help them lay the tables, grind the ink, and prepare the paper.

The first subject, water. The second subject, fowlbeasts. The third subject, a sunset.

The crowd whispers as they gather around the tables. Mr. Lu's brushwork is exquisite. As he draws mountains, he leaves spaces to act as water, while with but a handful of strokes, he creates a near-lifelike fowlbeast. It is hard to find any fault with his work. But none expected this unknown painter to paint water as if it were rippling, and fowlbeasts so refined you can hear the leaves rustle as they pass. As for her sunset, it is striking enough to provoke an appreciation for life itself, a stirring of the heart that is not easily subsided. But in the end, opinions are split, and neither of the two can claim victory yet.

The 'ordinary painter' says: 'I'll decide our final subject. We will paint people.'

'Who, exactly?'

'You and me. We will each paint our opponent as we see them.'

Mr. Lu sneers, then laughs heartily: 'Is this meant to be a challenge? If this is your choice, then I'm afraid you will be very disappointed. I have no small amount of experience painting portraits.'

He lays flat his paper and grinds his ink, wipes the sweat off his brow, then studies every detail of the 'ordinary painter' across from him. While she has not made a name for herself, her ability is nevertheless exceptional. This fact has been made utterly clear to him during the competition, a fact most startling. It was she who nitpicked his work in front of everyone, she who incited him to challenge her. Her intentions could not be more clear—

If she surpassed him in front of all these learned men and women, then from this day onwards, the greatest painter in Yan would be this complete nobody!

Haha, seeking fame and acclaim by using him as a stepping stone? The audacity! Did she really think it would be that easy?!

Mr. Lu brings all he has learned to bear as he commands his brush to lay ink on paper. His magnificent technique leaves the onlookers gasping in admiration. In the span of a single breath, the portrait is complete. The woman in the painting is near-identical to the 'ordinary painter', though a careful study will reveal one difference. Be it the woman's clothes or her jewelry, they are much more luxurious than the original.

'Do you require more time?', he asks mockingly.

The 'ordinary painter' does not reply, soon stowing her brush as well. The crowd gathers around her, but after a moment of silence, they look at each other as they lightly whisper words of praise. Mr. Lu hastily forces his way past them to look at the portrait, finding himself dumbstruck for a long, long while. Once he raises his head, he sees the 'ordinary painter' long gone, as if she were never here.

The person in the portrait is indeed Mr. Lu, and similarly, is near-identical but for one difference. The Mr. Lu in the portrait truly is a talent to rival the divine, a free-spirited painter unchained by convention. It is him as he was before his name was known by all, an unbridled, unbound sailor of the ink sea.

His lips quiver for a moment, and in shame, he says: 'The one I painted was not her... but myself.'

With those words, he tears apart the paintings. He leaves in utter dejection.