I Am Your Natural Enemy

Chapter 160: Chapter 90: Twelve Strikes of the Copper Bell, Professional Painter (5k)_3

This is the Dongtian her elder sister left behind; only her sister’s power could open it.

The last time she saw her sister, her sister had told her that she knew Gan Tang could never willingly live a lifetime as an ordinary person. So, everything here was left to her—only when she grew strong enough could she open it.

Inside were words meant for her, and things to leave behind for her.

It was because of this that Gan Tang waited patiently for her advancement, waiting for a thousand years just to know what message her sister had left for her.

She could wait no longer. This time, she stole away the Glasses, borrowing this wondrous item to cooperate with her already Flying Zombie strength to open the entrance.

After coming in, she felt somewhat disappointed—aside from the densely packed bamboo slips on the bookshelf, there was nothing else.

She entered the Stone Coffin, lay inside, closed the lid, and shut her eyes, quietly calming her mind.

After a long while, she opened her eyes and saw that the inside of the coffin lid was densely covered in countless small characters carved all over.

”Gan Tang, my younger sister, congratulations. You finally figured out a way to enter this place. I imagine it took a lot of effort.”

Upon seeing the first line, Gan Tang couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

Her sister really understood her, knew she’d definitely try to come up with other methods. But truthfully, she lacked her sister’s wit and had pondered it for a very long time without coming up with a workable idea.

After waiting a thousand years and still not getting in, this time she finally found a suitable wondrous item she could use.

She continued to read the words below, her expression gradually growing a little dazed.

Her sister said to read every book here—whatever needed saying was all within them.

She closed her eyes, emotions conflicted. She was no longer the girl she had once been; how could she not realize that her sister only wanted to protect her? If only she had been willing to cultivate quietly in peace...

If she could enter here, and finish reading all these books—it would mean that much, much time had passed.

All the old grudges, all conflict and danger would then be far from her, and she would never again be dragged into them.

Above, it was written: when the Thirteenth generation fell, in two or three generations Fuyu Mountain would inevitably begin to decline, and then The Last Dharma would draw near.

And at that time, the Yellow River God and the Water Monarch would also be entering the fiercest phase of open and covert struggle. The world would be chaotic, with all sorts of disturbances arising.

If Fuyu Mountain declined, it would be just as well—at least, its sharp edges would be gone, and survival would come easier, slipping past chaos.

Gan Tang’s eyes grew faintly red as she read all the rambling arrangements written above.

She truly did evade it all—evaded everything, spending nearly all her time slumbering within Fuyu Mountain.

Whereas those famed figures of old had long become mere names lost to time.

But this wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to know—since even that Big Executor who wasn’t all that strong could leave something behind, could her sister have left even more? Was there truly still hope, lingering somewhere?

But every single word here was about her; not a single line spoke of her sister herself.

Gan Tang’s eyes were red; her heart was both aching and moved—yet in the end, there remained a disappointment she could not quite suppress.

She held the little box in her hand and murmured to herself.

”Sister, you must’ve known you’d never be able to persuade me, right? Scorching Sun is already out in the world. So many things—there’s no running from them...”

...

Inside Wu Tingsheng’s villa, Wen Yan stood at the door of a room on the second floor, looking in.

Inside was a studio, with all sorts of tools Wen Yan didn’t recognize scattered everywhere. Only that solid wood desk—Wen Yan reckoned it had to be at least six figures to start.

Inside, a youth with slightly sunken cheeks, appearing very thin, was gripping a brush, painting at the table.

Looking at his expression—it was focused, spirited. His strokes were confident—not at all like Wu Tingsheng had said: hurt in his soul, his intelligence impaired.

Wen Yan narrowed his eyes slightly, quietly watching the other paint. When that youth finished a landscape painting, Wen Yan keenly sensed a trace of strange aura rising at once.

In his mind, a prompt popped up just in time.

”Painter.”

”An incident in his childhood, in the water, caused part of his soul to be missing.

But the soul’s deficiency, the lack of intelligence, didn’t hinder his talent—instead, it led to an absolute focus.

With this absolute focus, he could gather the broken, deficient fragments of his soul bit by bit, using the remaining parts to compensate for what was lost. Frail, yes; but better whole than missing something essential.

Only, because of someone, the very definition of soul had become somewhat skewed.

This intensely focused painter, without ever consciously realizing it, had begun instinctively trying.

He was attempting to create paintings with soul—using his art to mend his fractured spirit.

Only, earlier, something had already gone amiss—some accident caused him to fill in a piece of someone else’s soul.”

”Temporary Ability... Hey, be a decent human, bullying an idiot is over the line.”

After Wen Yan read the notice, the youth had finished painting as well. The moment he set down his brush, his gaze grew a little blank, confused, carrying a rare transparency.

He stared at the painting for a long time, then reached out, crumpled the fresh painting into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket beside him.

Wen Yan glanced over—inside that wastebasket were already several other balls of paper.

Wu Tingsheng wanted to enter, but Wen Yan held him back.

”Wen Sheng...”

”Just wait—let it be.”

Wen Yan stepped into the room. The youth paid him no mind whatsoever; still lowered his head, spread new paper, and picked up the brush to begin anew.

”I might not know much about art, but even I can tell—you’ll never paint a work with soul like that.”

The youth who had ignored everyone—not even responded to his own Laozi—suddenly paused, a drop of ink blooming on the rice paper. He didn’t care. Slowly, he raised his head, those bewildered eyes looking at Wen Yan.

”Do you know how?”

”I have to ask you something first. If you answer me honestly, then I’ll know if I can help you or not.”