Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Three weeks had passed since Yang bought the painting.

Yang had searched for Cheng Mo for an entire week straight. Seven days without work. Seven days wandering Sun City from dawn until the lanterns were lit. Asking merchants. Guards. Street vendors. Anyone who might have seen a unique-style painter or knew where he’d gone.

No one knew anything. Most barely remembered seeing the stall at all.

Li San had been worried. Watching Yang leave each morning with desperation in his eyes. Return each evening with defeat weighing down his shoulders. His friend barely ate. Barely slept. Just stared at that painting and planned the next day’s search.

Li San had even tried to use his own wages to buy information about painters. To hire someone who might know where Cheng Mo went. But paintings were the hobby of the wealthy. The domain of nobles and rich merchants who had coin to spare for beauty.

Even if Li San saved and worked for ten years straight, he wouldn’t have enough for a single quality painting. Let alone the kind of money needed to hire information brokers or investigators.

Li San had realized then how expensive Yang’s painting must truly be. The rare materials visible in the pigments. The unusual style that no one else in Sun City practiced. The incredible detail that made it look almost alive. It must be worth a fortune. More money than either of them would see in their lifetimes.

And Yang had bought it for two bronze coins. Less than a day’s wages.

Li San worried for Yang deeply. Had even taken a couple days off work so Yang wasn’t alone in his search. Because he didn’t want Yang spiraling into obsession. Losing himself completely to whatever pull that painting had over him.

Li San had sat Yang down one evening. Told him to take his time. Not to worry about money. That Li San would work extra shifts if needed so Yang could search properly. That their savings would hold for months yet if they were careful.

Yang had felt extremely guilty yet selfishly grateful. He’d accepted the offer with a throat too tight to speak properly. Kept searching for the painter while Li San covered their expenses without complaint.

But still, no one knew where Cheng Mo was. Or even where he’d lived while running his stall. The other merchants barely remembered him. Just another failed vendor who couldn’t make it in Sun City’s competitive markets.

By the second week, Yang had forced himself back to work. But taking alternate days off. Continuing his search on his free days. At least earning some wages so he wasn’t completely dependent on Li San. So his friend didn’t have to shoulder the entire burden.

The twelfth day of searching brought a surprising thunderstorm.

Yang had been in the eastern market district when the sky suddenly darkened. Clouds rolling in from nowhere. Black, heavy and threatening.

Rain fell in sheets within minutes. Heavy enough to flood the lower streets. Thunder cracked loud enough to shake buildings and send people screaming into doorways. Wind howled through the city like a living thing bent on destruction.

It hadn’t rained this much in all the months they’d stayed in Sun City. A light shower occasionally during the rainy season. But this sudden downpour with thunder and wind came without any warning. Without the usual signs that let people prepare.

Yang had to rush back to the Inn. Watching the streets turn to rivers. Unable to search. Just waiting for the storm to pass.

Li San also got sent home from the warehouse. The rain making it impossible to move goods safely. The guards worried about lightning strikes near the stored materials.

The storm lasted two days. Rain and thunder straight without pause. Merchants frantically moved their goods to higher ground. People worried about their homes. About disease from standing water.

Then suddenly, on the third morning, the sky cleared. The rain and thunder stopped as abruptly as they’d started. Sun breaking through dissipating clouds. Water draining away through the city’s channels.

Everyone rejoiced. Grateful that a calamity had been prevented. That the storm hadn’t lasted longer. Hadn’t destroyed homes and livelihoods.

Yang and Li San got much needed time together during those forced days inside. Time to relax. To just be brothers instead of workers and searchers. Something they hadn’t had in months due to their conflicting work hours and Yang’s recent obsession with finding the painter.

They played simple games. Talked about nothing important. Shared meals and stories. Remembered what it felt like to just exist without purpose or goal.

It was good. Healing in a way Yang hadn’t realized he needed.

After the storm passed and work resumed, Yang gave up the search.

He accepted it as a lost opportunity. Resigned himself to never finding Cheng Mo. Never getting the answers he desperately wanted about the painting and what it meant and why it called to him so strongly.

The painter was gone. Had probably left Sun City entirely. Maybe left the region. Yang would never see him again.

But Yang did start taking different and longer routes back to the inn after his work hours. Just in case. Just in the tiny hope he might stumble across Cheng Mo by accident where deliberate searching had failed.

It made his commute longer. Made him arrive back tired. But Yang couldn’t quite let go of that last thread of hope.

Today Yang made his way to the inn through a new route. One that wound through market squares he rarely visited. Past shops selling exotic spices that made his nose itch. Fabrics in colors he couldn’t name. Jewelry that sparkled in the late afternoon sun.

He walked slowly. Taking in the sights. Not really searching anymore but not quite giving up either.

The sun was setting by the time he reached Grey Thorn Inn. Orange light painting the weathered wooden walls in warm colors.

He greeted the inn owner. A tired nod in return. The man was used to Yang and Li San by now. Reliable tenants who paid on time and caused no trouble.

Yang nodded to the regulars drinking at the tables. Men he recognized but didn’t know. Faces that had become familiar over months of passing.

He made his way upstairs. Each step creaking under his weight. The building was old b3ut sturdy enough.

His room was at the end of the hall. Third door on the right. Yang pushed it open and entered.

Inside, Yang cleaned himself using the wash basin. The water was cool. Refreshing after a day of heavy labor and long walking. He scrubbed his face and arms. Wiped away the sweat and grime.

He changed into his older clothes. The ones that were already worn and patched. Saving the newer tunics for going out. For when appearance mattered.

Then Yang lay down on his bed. The straw mattress compressed under his weight. Familiar and almost comfortable after months of use.

He looked at the painting.

It stood on the center table between his and Li San’s beds. Right where he’d placed it that first night. Positioned so he could see it from either bed. So it was always visible.

The staircase into clouds. The endless climb carved into mountain stone. The mist that seemed to breathe. The mystery that calls to him every night before sleep claims him.

Yang traced the steps with his eyes. Counting them for the hundredth time. Maybe the thousandth. Wondering where they led. What waited at the top beyond the mist and clouds.

What kind of place required stairs that went on forever? What could possibly exist in those clouds that justified such an impossible climb?

”Interesting, isn’t it?”