Chapter 50: The Young Man Paints Wild Horses with Bold Strokes, Sweeping Away All Mediocrity of Eons

Fourth Master Lin’s words carried a hint of expectation, his gaze fixed on An Le, bright and piercing. In truth, such words were rather rude, even bordering on provocation, yet Fourth Master Lin asked with genuine sincerity.

Xixiang stood quietly to one side, not daring to speak. She had not expected the master to be so direct.

An Le was taken aback at first, then gradually caught the meaning behind Fourth Master Lin’s words. His gaze shifted to the black stallion basking in the spring sunlight across the meadow.

The Daoli Horse was glossy black, its long mane draping elegantly, thick, strong neck held high. Even as it simply walked through the grass, vigor seemed to surge through its frame; its eyes were bright, muscles rippling beneath its sleek coat, brimming with power. Sunlight spilled over its black fur, making it shimmer—it was indeed a magnificent steed.

“A fine horse,” An Le praised sincerely, admiring the Daoli.

As if hearing the compliment, the black horse on the distant pasture snorted, nostrils flaring, and pranced a few steps, its mane flying, showing off its spirit.

“Fourth Master, besides painting bamboo, I do have some skill in other subjects as well,” An Le said, turning to Lin and clasping his hands in a polite gesture.

Fourth Master Lin’s eyes grew even brighter. In just a few strides, he came to An Le’s side, took him by the hand, and led him to the desk.

“Come, come! Master An, would you show me your skill?” he asked earnestly. “Paint my Daoli from beyond the Pass.”

Fourth Master Lin, with scholarly propriety, made a solemn request.

“Why is Fourth Master so intent on having a horse painted?” An Le did not refuse, only asked out of curiosity.

Lin raised his head, a trace of sorrow between his brows as he gazed at the horse in the distance. “I love raising and training horses. This Daoli came with me from the frontier—it is my favorite. But in Lin’an, it cannot run, is often ill. After much thought, I have decided to let it go. This painting is both a keepsake and a farewell. I love horses, but here in Lin’an, I am bound by circumstance, shackled. If it stays with me, it will only suffer, with no chance to run free on the battlefield.”

He spoke at length, his tone thick with melancholy and reluctance. An Le could feel his deep sorrow, as if his heart were being cut open.

To send away the Daoli was akin to the Lin household sending off their young men to the wars.

An Le sighed. Suddenly, he understood why Lady Hua had sent him to Lin’s estate to inquire about the Young Saints List—perhaps she also hoped that, if he could paint horses, he might leave a portrait of the steed for Fourth Master Lin. Of course, the choice was his; if he was unwilling or unable, he could simply refuse.

After a moment’s thought, An Le smiled. “If that is so, then allow me to do my humble best,” he replied.

At these words, Lin, whose brow was still clouded, turned to him with great delight. He knew that An Le would not agree unless he had confidence in his skill.

“I’ll grind the ink for you, Master An!” Lin said eagerly, moving aside his own half-finished painting and laying out fresh xuan paper.

In the distance, Xixiang’s heart raced—if word spread that Fourth Master himself had ground ink and changed paper for another, it would cause no small stir.

“Fourth Master, no need for well-sized xuan. Use raw xuan paper instead,” An Le instructed.

Raw xuan for painting a horse?

Lin was taken aback. He had admired An Le’s ink bamboos from Lady Hua, painted in a freehand style uniquely his own. But could horses be rendered in such a way? Fine-line painting best captures a horse’s form and spirit; compared to painting people, it lends itself even more to showing the horse’s details and vitality. Only with the finest brush can the mane and tail be rendered with every detail alive.

Still, he did not question An Le. Since An Le’s ink bamboo paintings had established their own style, why not try a freehand horse? Without hesitation, Lin changed to raw xuan paper and focused on grinding the ink.

The sound of the inkstone was like wind through a bamboo forest, and the fragrance of ink soon permeated the garden.

An Le stood in contemplation for a long while before approaching the Daoli, who was strolling in the pasture. Perhaps due to the influence of the ancient jade he carried, the horse showed no resistance, but instead nuzzled up to him with surprising gentleness.

He rubbed the horse’s head, then unbuckled the reins and removed the saddle. With a gentle pat on its side, he turned back to the desk.

Lin, intent on his grinding, watched quietly.

“The highest art of painting is to pursue the essence of nature. Since you wish to remember Daoli, Fourth Master, then let us capture him at his freest, most unrestrained moment.”

Out on the grassland, the Daoli, freed of saddle and bridle, arched its neck and tossed its mane, wild and splendid.

An Le lifted his brush at the perfect moment, saturated it with ink, and let his mind, centered in the niwan palace, surge with energy.

He set his brush to the raw xuan.

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Jing Street, the luxurious residence prepared for Luo Qingchen by the Qin family.

Within the idle pavilion, flowing wine, winding corridors. Water boiled on a charcoal stove, steam rising, the spout whistling ceaselessly.

Luo Qingchen sat quietly, gazing at the tranquil artificial pond and rockery, seemingly lost in thought.

Yesterday, Young Master Qin had spoken to him in a tone that was anything but polite, yet Luo could understand—great hope brings great disappointment, and imbalance leads to harsh words. Besides, Young Master Qin was not known for his gentle manner; among the Qin sons, he was the most domineering, but he had reason to be.

Since Qin Qianqiu’s second brother was killed by Yang family’s Seventh Son in a public duel, the Prime Minister Qin was devastated, then had Qianqiu, transferring all his doting love to this youngest son.

Thus, Qin Qianqiu was the apple of his father’s eye. In addition, Qianqiu’s own talent for cultivation and the immense power he gained by accompanying the prince made him supremely confident.

His household was filled with hidden experts. The only thing Luo Qingchen prided himself on was his double-breaking of the Fifth Realm. The Fifth Realm is a threshold in the path of cultivation; many break through it once, but twice is truly remarkable.

Yet even so, a heart can be easily clouded. Disappoint someone too often, and even the deepest favor is lost.

Luo Qingchen’s value in Qin Qianqiu’s eyes had greatly diminished, hence yesterday’s blunt conversation.

“To kill An Le?” Luo Qingchen rose and walked to the edge of the pond, hands clasped behind his back, watching the ornamental carp glide by. He drifted into a trance.

“But the youth now is no longer that obscure figure I met on Jing Street. He holds the Young Saint’s Token, is protected by Hua Jiebing, and his ink masterpiece has astounded Lin’an... To kill such a man, I fear I would have to pay with my own life.”

“And I am unwilling.”

Luo Qingchen closed his eyes.

Drifting up from memory was that legendary top scholar from the Flying Snow Study. Even though the East Sea Heart-cleansing Pearl had washed away the dust in his heart, he could not forget the crushing defeat of that day.

The shadow remained, carved deep within, waiting for him to cleanse it himself.

The shadow left by Hua Jiebing’s Heart Sword was minor in comparison.

He opened his eyes—fatigue deep within them. He had left Qingzhou with ambition, come to Lin’an seeking glory.

But in a single defeat, the years had slipped by unnoticed.

He no longer had the time to turn back.

“Perhaps, Lin’an and I are weary of each other. It’s time to return to Qingzhou.”

Luo Qingchen exhaled softly.

He planned to find an opportunity to pay his respects to the Prime Minister Qin, to thank him for bestowing the East Sea Heart-cleansing Pearl. Though he had served in the Qin household for many years and repaid much, at his lowest, Qin’s helping hand had meant something different.

“Zhu Shan, prepare the carriage. I wish to visit Prime Minister Qin,” he called softly, lifting his cup of cold tea.

Yet his words echoed down the corridor with no answer from the burly coachman who had accompanied him from Qingzhou through triumph and defeat.

Luo Qingchen paused, the cup still at his lips.

...

...

As for painting horses, countless images flickered through An Le’s mind.

There was the “Five Horses Scroll,” which employed fine-line technique to capture every detail and expression. Yet it depicted not only horses but also people, reins, and saddles—not the state of mind Fourth Master Lin sought.

A free, untamed horse... the image in his mind was of the master whose paintings “cleansed the world of all common horses.”

His thoughts grew clear, scenes flashing past. Since beginning his cultivation, the spiritual center in his niwan had deepened his art.

He was not copying the works of his previous life, but using their methods, infusing his own understanding.

Soft wolf-hair brush soaked in dense ink, he pressed the first stroke for the horse’s neck—bold and heavy—then swept a curved line for the belly, all in one fluid motion!

The ink came alive on the pale xuan paper, An Le’s spirit surging into the painting, gathering like fireflies in the dark.

The energy of heaven and earth stirred with spring’s breeze.

Lin, watching at his side, eyes narrowed in awe—within a few strokes, the horse’s form was sketched: thick neck, arched belly, An Le’s grasp of equine anatomy was profound!

As neck, belly, haunch, and legs took shape, the perspective brought depth. With another brush, he splashed diluted ink, balancing light and dark; in an instant, the horse’s shape and muscle lines sprang to life on the paper.

Then, with a dry brush, he swept out the flying mane and tail, the interplay of wet and dry, light and dark, imparting a sense of motion and energy.

A single stroke shaped the horse’s leg, as sharp as a blade, its force seeming to pierce the paper—the horse was already running!

A hum seemed to fill the air—the spirit of heaven and earth gathered, his mind pouring into the painting.

An Le’s expression was grave as he refined the hooves in rich black, every detail precise; with the hooves complete, the essence of the painting emerged.

In that instant, it was as if a thunderous gallop shook the clouds.

Lin and Xixiang watched in awe.

The painted horse looked as if it would leap from the page, wild and untamed, racing across the plains with the speed of the wind.

Across the field, the Daoli seemed to sense a kindred spirit. It neighed, reared, then galloped wildly through the grass.

Lin stared, shaken, at the inked horse on the xuan paper—the interplay of shading, lines, and perspective in this ink painting made him see his Daoli as he once was: free, defiant, unrestrained.

In that moment, Lin felt the rush of breaking free from all bonds.

The wind rose, grass flew, and the horse thundered.

Heaven and earth’s energy and the painter’s spirit were all poured into the scroll.

The young man, with a splash of ink, painted a wild horse—and with that, achieved a Grade Eight Spirit-refining Masterpiece.