Chapter 396 - 214: One Hundred Years of Solitude

Chapter 396: Chapter 214: One Hundred Years of Solitude

"Brother, could it be that you understood?"

The man calmly shook his head. "No."

The Monk scratched his head. "What a coincidence. I didn’t understand either."

"It doesn’t matter." The man took a deep breath. "We have plenty of time."

「From that day forward.」

The man and the Monk settled in the dilapidated, grand residence.

The residence was surrounded by dry fields that needed plowing. The Monk worked tirelessly, going down the mountain to buy seeds. He plowed the fields, planted the crops, watered them, and fertilized them. His days gradually grew more fulfilling.

In the courtyard, the man who had lost both his legs always sat, watching the falling leaves at dusk and the morning dew at sunrise.

After returning home, he seemed like a different person, always appearing very quiet. Every evening at dusk, a childlike smile would appear on his weathered face.

Unwittingly, they lived in the grand residence for two years.

The old woman’s health deteriorated day by day. In truth, it had been this way even before the man returned home. No wonder the scent of strong herbal medicine always drifted from the back kitchen.

In the winter of the third year, the old woman caught a cold and couldn’t stop coughing.

The sun was setting as heavy snow fell, blanketing the grand residence in a thick layer. In the afterglow of the sunset, it was bathed in a golden radiance. The man, leaning on his crutches, happily walked into the snow. He let the frigid flakes land on his face—cold and wet. The melted snow trickled down from the corners of his eyes, and he smiled.

"COUGH COUGH... Young Master, you seem to always enjoy watching the sunset."

The old woman coughed violently. Her heart ached watching the Young Master struggle to walk on his crutches, but she couldn’t help but ask. The question had been on her mind for three whole years.

"And the snow."

The man smiled faintly. "The color of the sunset reminds me of the yellows of the Great Desert... and the endless snow reminds me of that mountain. Now, I have them both."

"I really do want to meet the Young Madam."

The Young Master had once mentioned that he had married while he was away. His Madam was very beautiful, with skin as white as snow and lips as red as cherries. Her arrows never missed, and her fists were formidable—at the time, Aunt Mei didn’t know what he meant by that, but she could tell the Young Master was truly fond of her.

"When you’ve recovered, you’ll be able to meet her. You raised me since I was born, you’re like a second mother to me. When spring comes and the flowers bloom next year, I will definitely bring her back. We will light a stick of incense in the ancestral hall, pray for the ancestors’ blessings and to be blessed with children soon, and we will serve you a steaming cup of tea as an elder."

"Alright! Young Master, you’re handsome, and the Young Madam, she’s beautiful. Whether you have a boy or a girl, they’ll be a cut above the rest. The Gongsun Family bloodline will be second to none. COUGH COUGH COUGH—"

Every morning, the man had a habit of waking up early to paint.

The Monk went out to work and support the household. Mei Niang, however, would always fetch water, grind the ink, and prepare the Art Supplies for Zheng Xiu beforehand. Zheng Xiu always told Mei Niang that her health was poor and she shouldn’t overexert herself. Mei Niang would say she had gotten used to grinding ink and preparing brushes for the Old Master back in the day. After he was gone all these years, she’d gotten rusty and wasn’t used to the quiet. Now that the Young Master was back and someone was painting again, she was overjoyed and not tired at all. When Mei Niang said this, the man could only let her be.

The Monk returned wearing a straw cape, having gone down the mountain to buy some medicine. His face was flushed, as if he’d encountered some great news. "Brother, your painting sold for a high price today! Someone understands your art! The demons and monsters you paint are so damn sinister, and the rich merchant said he loves sinister stuff!" As he spoke, the Monk pulled out a heavy bag of silver.

"Tsk. People are so fickle."

The man sneered and took the silver. He knew full well his paintings weren’t worth a damn. The demons and monsters he painted had no eyes; they had form but no spirit, no different from trash. But of course, the tasteless rich who couldn’t tell the difference just had to love trash. The irony was palpable.

In the years since the Monk had stopped fighting, the world was at peace, and he had incidentally picked up many new Skills. Washing clothes, cooking, chopping firewood, carpentry, embroidery—he was a master of all. Sometimes he was as innocent as a young boy, sometimes as boisterous as a bandit, and sometimes as shy as a maiden. He was ever-changing.

That morning, Zheng Xiu came to the courtyard. A night of heavy snow had whitened the branches, and it had whitened the man’s brows as well.

The man saw the empty long table and froze for a moment. Then, he sat down with a sense of loss, gazing quietly at the vast sky, waiting for the sun to rise.

For the first time in three years, he did not paint in the morning.

Aunt Mei was dead.

In the end, Aunt Mei did not survive that harsh winter.

She did not live to see the Young Master and Young Madam return home hand in hand.

She did not get to see four generations of the Gongsun Family under one roof.

The Monk and the man buried Aunt Mei with their own hands. They solemnly placed her spirit tablet within the Gongsun Family’s ancestral hall and mourned for seven days.

On the eighth day after Aunt Mei’s death, the man personally lit a great fire and burned down the grand residence.

From then on, the Gongsun Family disappeared from the world forever.

"I want to go see Xiaotao."

As he watched the great fire burn his ancestral home to cinders, with ash filling the sky, the silent man suddenly spoke to the Monk.

The Monk was stunned for a moment, then nodded forcefully. "Alright. She’s... in the Imperial City."

Years ago, Xie Yunliu had used his connection with Bai Xiaosheng to find a wealthy merchant in the Imperial City. The merchant and his wife were old and childless, and they treated Xiaotao as their own daughter.

Nearly twenty years had passed since they last parted. After Aunt Mei’s death, the man was in a daze. He recalled a time, long ago, when an innocent young girl, much like Mei Niang, had ground ink for him without fail, rain or shine. Back then, he had been focused on painting Xie Luohe.

In the blink of an eye, the people the man knew in this world had left him one by one. Only the Monk remained by his side.

He still hadn’t been able to create the "Cannibal Painting."

He didn’t know how to paint a "heart."

Painting mountains and water, people and commoners, the bustling world and all its myriad states—none of it was difficult. In terms of pure Danqing technique, he had long ago reached the level of the "Gongsun Painting Saint" of old. But he still couldn’t paint a "living" Human heart.