Chapter 25: Bring a Pot of Amber Wine, Bathe in Starlight and Paint Ink Bamboo

After seeing the old man off, An Le slowly exhaled. The elder who had emerged from the ancestral temple was of particular status; to serve as the temple’s chief was not only a matter of cultivation, but of rank and prestige far beyond An Le’s reach.

Still, An Le refused the old man’s suggestion to immediately exchange paintings. As the elder himself said, a gentleman values his word; a promise is worth a thousand gold. Since he had already agreed to visit the Lin household, he could not simply fail to appear without notice.

The old man had promised to shield him from the demonic aura that might spill out during his body-tempering. To An Le, this was a valuable favor, for otherwise, should he truly attract the demon hunters, it would indeed be troublesome.

Where there are demons, there are demon hunters; the term is broad, but most are cultivators, with the likes of Daoists and monks sometimes dabbling in the trade. Folk tales in Great Zhao recount many demon hunters, and most do not distinguish between good and evil demons—they capture all indiscriminately. Even possessing anything related to demons could provoke their wrathful action.

Thus, if An Le’s demonic aura leaked during his tempering, attracting some unreasonable demon hunters would certainly cause trouble.

He changed out of the blue robe stained with blood from his pores, donning a white garment that lent him an air of elegance and charm, and, thanks to the body-tempering with demonic energy, an added hint of allure.

He locked up the courtyard and, upon leaving, walked out of the temple lane with a relaxed stride.

Passing by the grand and tightly shut ancestral temple, its interior was impossible to glimpse. An Le did not linger, withdrew his gaze, and headed toward Jing Street, where the noble residences clustered.

Today, due to the demonic jade, he spent extra time practicing the Five Beasts, leaving no time to visit the West Lake and plunder the gentle immortal’s resources, but with so many young masters in the Lin household, he could harvest more than enough.

Arriving at Jing Street, feet on the smooth stone, he recalled yesterday’s attack and the oppressive presence of Luo Qingchen. An Le’s lips curled in a subtle smile, quietly tucking the memory away.

Passing the stone arch in front of the Lin residence, where all officials must dismount and proceed on foot, he lifted the door knocker and rapped. A maid quickly opened the door for him.

“Mr. An has arrived, please come in.”

The petite maid, seeing how An Le had grown more handsome and refined, unconsciously blushed, carefully leading him toward the martial hall.

Lin Qingyin and Lin Zhuifeng were already waiting there. When An Le entered in white, his slightly demonic features drew their gaze for a moment.

An Le greeted them with a smile and, deftly, harvested two strands of the aura of years from each.

The eighth young master, Lin Ye, conquered yesterday by An Le’s retouching skills, came over cheerfully to greet him, and An Le promptly took two more strands.

Among the Lin household’s third generation, those of the same age as the ninth sister generally carried seven or eight strands of the aura of years. Lin Zhuifeng had a bit more, over ten, while Lin Qingyin had only seven.

If An Le came a few more times, Lin Qingyin would soon be exhausted.

Fortunately, the sheer number of young masters meant An Le could sustain his harvest for a while.

After extracting strands of the aura of years from the two young masters and Lin Qingyin and Lin Zhuifeng—four in all—he reached his limit and could not take more.

All eight strands extracted were grey.

The golden aura of years, needed to condense the fruit of years, was not so easily produced.

Of the two strands taken from the woman this morning, one had transformed into a fruit, leaving just one. With the eight new strands, An Le’s reserves suddenly felt abundant.

He estimated that, at present, ten strands of the aura of years per day was about his limit.

Perhaps, as his cultivation advanced, he would be able to absorb more.

He took up the charcoal, sharpened it, laid out the paper, and began his daily task of painting portraits for the Lin household’s young masters.

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As the sun set and the sky was awash with rosy clouds,

Willows swayed gently along the long street, a soft breeze bringing a unique sense of ease.

An Le took his leave of Lin Zhuifeng and Lin Qingyin and departed the Lin residence, unable to meet Lady Hua today.

He wandered the long street and arrived at a tavern, bought a jug of old yellow wine, and ordered some pork head and braised beef.

Carrying the wine and food, bathing in the evening glow, he made his way back to the small courtyard in the ancestral temple lane, his temporary home in Lin’an Prefecture, walking unhurriedly.

Back in the courtyard, the old locust tree’s branches and leaves rustled in the wind. An Le fetched water from the nearby old well, watered the potted flowers and plants, then set up a table in the courtyard and laid out his food and wine.

The moonlight deepened, half shrouding each household. The northern dipper tilted, the southern dipper slanted.

Night quietly descended, with a clear moon hanging high and stars scattered across the sky.

Footsteps sounded outside the lane. The old man in plain robes arrived, carrying a mounted painting in one hand and the other behind his back, walking in as if an old friend arriving as promised.

“Hahaha, I could smell the wine from afar.”

The elder laughed heartily, settling into a chair in the courtyard. His gaze lingered on the already warmed old yellow wine and the plated pork head, his smile growing brighter.

To him, yellow wine and simple fare were nothing special; even immortal brews he could drink alone, but as the guardian of the ancestral temple, it had been ages since he shared such a meal with another. For a moment, his emotions were complex.

An Le poured him a cup of wine and smiled, “This is old yellow wine from a tavern in Yanchun Lane on Imperial Street. I drank it once with a friend—quite flavorful. I brought a jug for you to try. If you like it, please come often; I’ll keep the place tidy and the wine ready.”

The old man drained his cup, eyes squinting, smacking his lips.

“A fine wine, with the taste of craftsmanship—excellent!”

Praising the wine, he and An Le clinked cups and drank together. After three cups, the elder stroked his long brows, took up the painting, and gently unrolled it.

“Young friend, if you can serve as painter in the Lin household, you must have real talent. Come, let us admire some art.”

He smiled.

Under the dim candlelight, the painting was revealed.

His gaze fell upon a meticulously rendered bamboo painting, all in one color, with elegant charm.

An Le observed, and, faintly, his spirit was involuntarily stirred, much as when contemplating the “Sword Cascade.” Yet he was not entering a meditative state—merely viewing the painting was enough to move his spirit, attesting to its strangeness!

“Young friend, how do you find my Bamboo Insect Painting?”

The elder smiled.

An Le analyzed it carefully, unable to hold back his praise. “Sparse shadows of the secluded thickets, double-hooked and colored, the hues seem to leap. You’ve depicted beetles and locusts, all intricately rendered—a masterpiece of meticulous bamboo painting! The work of a true master!”

The elder, hearing An Le’s comments, knew he understood art. A connoisseur’s praise was different than that of the ignorant, who could only mutter, “It’s good.”

Did he not already know his own work was good?

The old man chuckled, poured another cup of wine, and drank it, feeling even the wine had sweetened.

An Le continued to gaze at the painting, sensing his spirit growing stronger as he admired it.

“Feel your spirit strengthening? For those of us who cultivate, painting is not merely idle brushwork. We infuse our spirit, lending the painting deeper meaning.”

Seeing An Le’s demeanor, the old man stroked his beard and slowly explained, “The path of refining the spirit is about strengthening one’s mind. Music, chess, calligraphy, and painting not only cultivate character—they also fortify the spirit. The court employs many painters who infuse their spirit into their works, so viewers can nourish their spirits by looking.”

“Many masters of spirit refinement are skilled in all these arts. When a renowned artist creates a piece, a single painting can rival a rare spiritual artifact.”

The old man ate and drank as he imparted his knowledge to An Le.

“This Bamboo Insect Painting was crafted with ordinary techniques, without infusing my spirit, but it still possesses a touch of the miraculous—viewing it can nourish the spirit.”

An Le nodded, amazed, and found himself reluctant to part with the painting.

The elder smiled, looking at An Le. “Young friend, your entry into the Lin household as a painter was a stroke of luck. With their status, hiring a court painter would not be difficult, but because court painters have intricate backing and the Lin family avoids factional strife, they conducted a selection to find a painter—giving you your opportunity.”

“But the fact that your work won the old lady’s favor must mean it has notable merit. I’m rather eager to see your painting.”

Hearing this, An Le rose, went inside, and brought out several sketches for the elder.

The old man took them, examining closely, his eyes flashing with an unusual light. “Using charcoal as ink, your painting reveals realism and a unique approach—commendable!”

“For portraits, this is indeed more suitable than traditional ink outlines. No wonder you surpassed so many painters in Lin’an to enter the Lin household.”

He truly appreciated An Le’s sketches.

Setting the sketches aside, he looked at An Le. “But I prefer painting with the wolf-hair brush. Do you know this technique?”

An Le immediately understood; the elder was testing him. Though he admired the sketches, he did not prefer them. If An Le only knew sketching, tonight might be their last conversation on art.

But An Le was undaunted, smiling. “Painting with the wolf-hair brush in bold strokes—I am certainly familiar.”

The old man’s eyes brightened.

An Le stood, lighting a candle, and walked inside. “You painted meticulous bamboo—allow me to respond with an ink bamboo.”

Ink bamboo... The old man’s eyes flashed with doubt. He picked up the jug of wine and followed An Le inside.

Inside, raw rice paper was laid on the desk. An Le carefully ground the ink, closed his eyes, and pondered.

The elder poured himself a cup and glanced at An Le, curious how the youth would paint bamboo.

Would it be the impulsiveness of youth? If so, he might be disappointed.

Unaware of the elder’s thoughts, images of bamboo paintings naturally flashed through An Le’s mind, and at last the style of a master painter surged forth.

He opened his eyes, dipped the wolf-hair brush in ink, and, with bold strokes, began on the white paper—lifting the brush again and again, pausing between strokes.

The slender main stalk of the bamboo leapt onto the paper. He switched to lighter ink, repeating the method to sketch more stalks with orderly strokes, as though ink flowed from his heart.

With dark ink, he painted leaves—a pause, a slash, and the leaves took shape, like swords or knives. Two wolf-hair brushes alternated between dark and light ink, and in moments, bamboo and stone appeared on the rice paper.

The leaves bore the edge of a sword; slender stalks supported abundant leaves, standing upon the rock—long and straight, like the backbone of a gentleman!

A painting of ink bamboo and stone, imbued with a sense of uprightness!

It drew the spirit as if moving stars and constellations!

An Le seemed unaware of the old man nearby, and took up the brush again, signing in the style of the master Banqiao.

“Clinging tight to the green mountain, never letting go…”

The old man, at some point, was gazing intently at the painting, his action of pouring wine frozen, the liquid spilling from the cup.