The Company

Chapter 15 Four Seasons Picture

Following his usual routine, the Doctor drove to Dumb Shop for breakfast after finishing his night shift. Since returning from Xi'an, his relationship with the Boss had grown even closer. If they were considered good friends before, they could now truly be called brothers who had faced life and death together.

After all, they had nearly died inside the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang at Mount Li.

Even now, recalling that night felt utterly surreal to the Doctor. He couldn't be certain whether it had been real or just an extraordinarily vivid dream. He dared not speak of it to others—any listener would likely dismiss it as hallucination.

The Doctor sat absently by Dumb Shop's counter, watching the Boss skillfully brew the first spring tea of the year. The antique-filled interior soon grew fragrant with the tea's aroma.

The Boss no longer wore his usual Mao Suit. They had brought back half of a Qin dynasty robe woven with black gold and black jade threads from the underground palace at Mount Li, which a master tailor had transformed into a fashionable shirt. The fabric remained completely black, with deep crimson cloud patterns embroidered along the cuffs and hem. The persistent Crimson Dragon, seizing an unguarded moment, had secretly transferred itself onto this new shirt. Now the dragon's head rested on the Boss's right shoulder while its body coiled across his back. Since the shirt's completion, the dragon hadn't moved, as if hibernating. Though this provided some relief, the creature's ferocious visage still evoked chills.

The Doctor showed little interest in the new shirt—his fascination lay with the Boss himself. How he longed to obtain a strand of hair or a drop of blood for analysis... to understand his physiological makeup... to personally dissect him... The itching in his hands grew unbearable. Since learning the Boss had lived over two thousand years, the Doctor's thirst for knowledge had become insatiable.

Yet he knew the Boss detested medical testing. Worse, if confidentiality were breached, their peaceful days would vanish forever. Noting the Doctor's covetous gaze, the Boss calmly poured steeped tea into his cup. Truthfully, the Boss also wished to uncover the secret behind his immortality—his previous explanations to the Doctor had been mere speculation. Precise instrument examination might be acceptable, provided it remained undisclosed.

But he felt no urgency. After countless years, time was the one thing he possessed in abundance.

Suppressing a smile, the Boss wondered how long the Doctor would wrestle with his dilemma before voicing the request. Meanwhile, the Doctor lounged in Dumb Shop's huanghuali recliner, leisurely reading newspapers while savoring spring tea. His dog Apache had been entrusted to his cousin during their Xi'an trip, but the temporary arrangement had blossomed into genuine attachment. Despite multiple attempts to reclaim the pet, his cousin refused—it seemed Apache wouldn't be returning.

Early mornings at Dumb Shop were particularly quiet, the usual trickle of customers nonexistent. Thus, the Doctor started when an elegant man pushed open the door—a fair-complexioned youth wearing a simple white shirt, carrying a painting tube, and sporting black-rimmed glasses.

With a somewhat haughty nod toward the Boss behind the counter, the visitor moved familiarly toward the shop's inner chambers.The doctor’s eyes widened so much they nearly popped out of their sockets. He stared as the man walked around the jade screen, then turned and whispered quietly to the Boss, “Who is that guy? Why does he act like this is his own home?”

The Boss held the exquisite teacup under his nose, savoring the aroma of the tea. He looked up and said calmly, “He’s a teacher from the nearby art university. He comes here to copy paintings and calligraphy. He often visits and stays inside all day, so it’s rare for you to see him.”

“Copy paintings and calligraphy?” the doctor repeated skeptically. Since when had the Boss become so charitable? “Why is he so special? Is he some kind of reincarnated master?” It wasn’t unreasonable for the doctor to be suspicious. After all, he had heard of reincarnations like Huo Qubing and Xiang Yu... Even he himself was rumored to be the reincarnation of Fusu. Perhaps the painter who had just walked in was another extraordinary figure...

The heavy carved wooden door creaked open again, and the Curator entered, leaning on his cane. The first thing he noticed was the newly added tall terracotta warrior near the entrance. Adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, he exclaimed incredulously, “Is this... a terracotta warrior from Qin Shi Huang’s tomb? Which workshop forged this? How absurd! Wow, it even has a real bronze sword...”

The doctor coughed to stifle a burst of laughter. Forged? Good heavens! If the Curator knew this terracotta warrior had chased them out of the Qin Mausoleum’s underground palace on its own, his glasses would surely shatter from shock. Still, the doctor knew that even with the Curator’s sharp eye, he would never believe such a brightly colored terracotta warrior was genuine. Typically, the residual pigments on newly unearthed terracotta warriors fade quickly. He had no idea what method the Boss had used to preserve the colors on this one. And if the Curator found out this warrior could move... The doctor turned away, struggling to hold back his laughter.

Though the Curator found the terracotta warrior somewhat peculiar, he didn’t dwell on it. Glancing at the Boss seated behind the counter, he raised an eyebrow and teased, “You changed your shirt? I thought your old clothes suited you better.”

“I’ve worn that outfit for so long; it was time for a change,” the Boss replied, taking out a new cup and placing it in front of the Curator before pouring him a full cup of clear tea.

Sitting at the counter, the Curator scanned the shop and asked, puzzled, “I clearly saw someone come in earlier. Where did he go?”

The doctor pointed toward the back. “He went into the inner room.”

“What?!” The Curator looked as if struck by lightning, his expression a mix of envy and resentment, much like the doctor’s. He knew full well that the items in the inner room far surpassed those on display outside, yet he had never been granted entry.

The Boss repeated the same explanation he had given the doctor, but the Curator persisted, probing further, “So, which ancient painting is he copying?”

The Boss didn’t hide it and replied calmly, “He’s currently copying Zhan Ziqian’s ‘Treading on Snow.’ His progress is slow—he only paints one stroke a day.”

One stroke a day? The doctor clicked his tongue inwardly. What a snail’s pace!

Turning his head, he saw the Curator clutching his chest, his face contorted, and immediately panicked. “Uncle, what’s wrong? Do you have a heart condition?” The doctor quickly jumped up and helped the Curator sit down.

The Curator pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the fine sweat from his forehead, trembling as he stammered, “I-I... Even if I didn’t have a heart condition, this would give me one! Zhan Ziqian! How could it be Zhan Ziqian’s ‘Treading on Snow’?”"Zhan Ziqian? Is he famous?" The Doctor hadn't heard this name before and didn't think much of it.

"Of course he's famous!" The Curator struck the floor heavily with his cane, producing a dull thud. "Among existing landscape scroll paintings, 'Spring Outing' by Sui Dynasty painter Zhan Ziqian is the earliest discovered ancient painting that remains remarkably well-preserved. It's currently housed in Beijing's Palace Museum, bearing Emperor Huizong of Song's personal inscription. According to unofficial historical records, Zhan Ziqian's most famous work throughout his life was the 'Four Seasons Picture,' with 'Spring Outing' being just one part of it. The collection also included 'Children Playing in Water,' 'Falling Leaves,' and 'Treading on Snow.' However, no copies of the other three paintings exist, leading many to doubt their authenticity... Boss, could you let me take a look?" The Curator turned to plead with the Boss.

Surprisingly, the Boss nodded. "The first room on the right. But those three paintings can only be seen by destined individuals - prepare yourself mentally."

The Curator immediately limped toward the inner room using his cane. Out of curiosity, the Doctor followed along. The Boss didn't stop them, merely lowering his head to carefully polish a teacup with a soft cloth. Within a minute, the Doctor emerged from behind the jade screen, complaining resentfully: "You're lying! That room just has blank paper hanging! And that painter was actually staring intently at those blank sheets!"

"I told you only destined people can see them. Didn't the Curator come out with you?" The Boss chuckled lightly.

"No, he saw blank paper too, but there was a drawing paper spread on the painter's desk that was completely filled. The Curator's studying that one," the Doctor replied, then added, "Should I call him out?"

"No need. Since the painter didn't say anything, let him stay." The Boss wasn't completely unreasonable.

"Oh." The Doctor sat back down but had lost all interest in reading the newspaper. "Boss, the Curator said although those three ancient paintings appear as blank paper to him, the paper itself is indeed very old. Are they really the other three pieces from the legendary 'Four Seasons Picture'? And who is that painter? How can he see them?"

The Boss stopped polishing the teacup and asked with a smile, "Want to hear a story?"

"Yes!" The Doctor immediately leaned forward - he was quite bored anyway!

"Hmm... let me think... this goes back to very ancient times..."

During the Northern Song Dynasty.

"If we're talking about the young Prince Duan, truly everyone in the capital knows of him! Setting aside his brilliant calligraphy and paintings circulating outside, today let's discuss his youthful romantic adventures..." On the second floor of a teahouse in Dongjing Bianliang, a storyteller was enthusiastically sharing the latest gossip while the audience listened intently. For common folks, these romantic scandals were the perfect dessert after tea.

In a corner near the railing sat two young men in luxurious attire. One wearing sapphire-blue robes smiled brightly and asked the youth in dark purple robes beside him in a hushed voice: "Your Highness, he's talking about you! But how come I've never heard about this story of yours?"The other youth selected a tea cake from the small tea jar handed by the attendant, patiently ground it into powder using a tea mortar. Once the powder was evenly ground, he placed it in the tea tray for later use, quietly waiting for the kettle beside the table to boil.

As distraction is most undesirable during tea preparation, the blue-robed youth refrained from further conversation. Soon, the water in the kettle came to a boil. An attendant presented a set of celadon lotus-leaf-shaped tea bowls, and the blue-robed youth couldn’t resist picking one up to examine it closely. The glaze was moist and soft, pure as jade. It felt like silk to the touch, with a texture resembling accumulated cream. Hidden crackles within the glaze shimmered and shifted under the sunlight, revealing it as a rare treasure at first glance. Turning it over to check the inscription on the base, he immediately grumbled with envy and discontent, "His Majesty truly favors you! You dare bring this imperial gift out onto the streets? Aren’t you afraid of damaging it?"

The purple-robed youth glanced at him and replied indifferently, "Objects are meant to be used. If it breaks, I’ll just ask my imperial brother for another." With that, he picked up the boiling kettle from the stove, elegantly warming the teapot, heating the cups, drying the vessel, adding the tea, toasting the leaves, and pouring water... As the boiling water rushed into the tea bowl, he took up the tea whisk and began whisking the tea with even, measured strokes. The tea powder, scalded by the hot water, released rising steam and fragrance that instantly filled the air, refreshing the mind and delighting the senses.

Soon, the tea and water in the bowl blended seamlessly, forming a froth that swelled like piled clouds or accumulated snow.

"Cousin, your tea-whisking skill has reached perfection!" The blue-robed youth stared in awe at the tea bowl placed before him. In the celadon bowl, the froth was pure white, with tea traces lingering without dispersing—the highest achievement in tea preparation.

"Speaking of which, those visitors from the Eastern Islands a while back were everywhere learning our tea ceremony. They mimicked the forms quite convincingly and seemed intent on bringing it back to their homeland!"

"Like a dog attempting to paint a tiger, they’ve failed to grasp the essence of our dynasty’s tea culture. Their rigid imitation is nothing but green coins floating on water—superficial and shallow," the purple-robed youth remarked dismissively. He took another tea bowl, repeated the process, and prepared a bowl of tribute tea for himself.

These two youths were none other than the recently renowned Prince Duan of Dongjing Bianliang, Zhao Ji, in purple robes, and the blue-robed Zhao Lingrang, a fifth-generation descendant of Emperor Taizu of Song, Zhao Kuangyin, making him a member of the imperial clan. Being of the same generation, similar age, and sharing common interests, Zhao Lingrang affectionately addressed Zhao Ji as "cousin," often drawing reproach from elders for his informal manner. Yet, having grown up within the extensive imperial clan, Zhao Lingrang understood propriety. In daily interactions with Zhao Ji, his use of "Your Highness" carried a tone of playful mockery.

Zhao Ji paid it no mind. Enfeoffed as a prince at the age of three, he found no particular distinction in the title. Preferring to conceal his identity and wander among the common folk, he appreciated Zhao Lingrang’s unpretentious attitude.

After Zhao Ji finished preparing his own bowl of tribute tea and raised a hand in gesture, Zhao Lingrang immediately picked up his tea bowl, feeling the perfect warmth soothing his palms. In the celadon bowl, the tea and cream had merged, creating a rich, thick liquid. Admiring it briefly, Zhao Lingrang raised the bowl and drank it all in one go. After the tea was consumed, the remaining froth clung persistently to the bowl—a phenomenon known as "biting the bowl," which occurs only when tea is whisked to absolute perfection.

Zhao Ji also finished his tea, gazing contentedly at the "bitten bowl" traces left on the glazed surface.As Prince Duan Zhao Ji, he naturally pursued perfection in everything he did.

Zhao Lingrang picked up the teapot beside him and poured hot water into Zhao Ji's teacup, the stream tracing an elegant arc through the air before filling the vessel. The hot water rinsed away the tea residue clinging to the cup's walls. After finishing the remaining tea, Zhao Ji wiped his hands with a towel handed by an attendant and asked with a light smile, "Danian, any plans for today?"

Zhao Lingrang inwardly grumbled about the childhood name his father had given him—even his younger brother Yongnian's name sounded better than "Danian"! But he dared not ask Zhao Ji to change how he addressed him, as using the nickname signaled closeness. Zhao Lingrang also drank his remaining tea, smacking his lips to savor the lingering fragrance before replying, "A new antique shop just opened on East Street. Shall we go see what treasures they have?"

The suggestion immediately appealed to Zhao Ji. He rose to leave without even finishing his tea snacks.

Zhao Lingrang popped two delicate tea candies into his mouth, instructed his servants to pack up the tribute-grade tea set, and hurried after Zhao Ji.

In the teahouse, the storyteller continued swaying his head while narrating the romantic escapades of the young Prince Duan, captivating the audience who remained unaware that the prince himself had been sitting among them.

Bianliang, the Eastern Capital, was an exceptionally prosperous city. Merchants and travelers passing through often claimed no other city could rival its splendor and beauty.

Even someone as arrogant as Zhao Ji agreed wholeheartedly. Unlike the enclosed ward system of Tang Dynasty capitals, Bianjing allowed merchants to open shops anywhere after paying taxes. This created blocks of neatly aligned buildings, with shopfronts displaying identical eaves and lavish curtains. Treasures, curios, and goods from across the land filled the displays, while streets buzzed with pedestrians and carriages—a vibrant scene of peace and prosperity.

Before the Song Dynasty, strict curfews had limited market activities, with city and ward gates closing at night. The Song Dynasty abolished these restrictions, and the previous Emperor Shenzong further promoted commercial growth by developing night markets. Though opening shops became easier, East Street—lined with established businesses—rarely had vacancies. Thus, when Zhao Lingrang mentioned the new antique shop there, Zhao Ji knew it must have impressive backing.

Without substantial resources, how could anyone operate on East Street?

"Cousin, we're here." At Zhao Lingrang's words, Zhao Ji looked up to see two archaic seal-script characters on the modest storefront. He nodded appreciatively: "Dumb Shop. The name has character—far more elegant than those clichéd names like Xuande Pavilion or Three Treasures Studio." Zhao Lingrang, having anticipated his cousin's approval, grinned proudly: "I knew you'd like it. But I've only heard about this place from others. If it turns out to be all show and no substance, don't blame me!"

Before Zhao Ji could respond, the shop door creaked open a crack, and a two-year-old boy squeezed through the gap.

Zhao Ji found the fair-skinned child adorable and was wondering which family he belonged to when his attention was completely captured by the bronze sword clutched in the boy's hands.Saying he was holding it might not be entirely accurate, as the sword's length was nearly equal to the little boy's height. At his age, he couldn't possibly lift such a heavy bronze sword, so he gripped the hilt with both hands while the tip of the scabbard dragged on the ground. Though the bronze sword remained sheathed, Zhao Ji's discerning eyes recognized it as a renowned artifact from at least the Spring and Autumn or Warring States period.

Having grown up surrounded by antiques, Zhao Lingrang winced at the sight of the boy dragging the precious sword outside. He hurriedly bent down to lift the tip for him. In that brief moment, the bird seal script engraved on the scabbard caught his eye, sending a jolt through him. "Cousin!" he exclaimed, "This is an authentic King of Yue Sword!"

Zhao Ji raised an eyebrow. The Song Dynasty favored literary pursuits over martial ones, so he wasn't particularly intrigued by the famous King of Yue Sword. Yet the fact that this antique shop would let a two-year-old treat such a treasure as a toy hinted at even greater wonders within. His eyes lit up, and he stepped inside.

Compared to the bright sunshine outside, the antique shop was considerably dimmer. Behind the heavy carved wooden doors, two Changxin Palace Lanterns cast a soft glow, while a pleasant incense permeated the air. Tracing the scent to its source, he spotted a gilded Bo Shan incense burner carved with a soaring dragon on a rosewood counter, wisps of smoke curling leisurely from the dragon's mouth. The shop's elegant ambiance felt more like an aristocratic family's hall than a commercial establishment, with each antique appearing priceless. Even Zhao Ji, raised in imperial splendor, couldn't help but silently admire the setting, naturally developing a respectful desire to befriend the shop's owner.

Despite the spacious interior, a quick glance told Zhao Ji the shop was empty. Unhurried, he turned his attention to a pair of calligraphy scrolls hanging in the hall—if he wasn't mistaken, these were the original brushwork of Emperor Taizong of Tang, Li Shimin.

"Who are you? The shop isn't open yet!" A clear child's voice rang out. Zhao Ji turned to see the little boy who'd been dragging the King of Yue Sword squeeze back through the door crack, his large dark eyes glaring intently.

Zhao Lingrang, who was still holding the sword for the boy, rubbed his nose and chuckled. "Isn't an unopened shop still going to open? Hey kid, does your shop have any rare calligraphy or paintings?"

Initially displeased by their intrusion, the boy immediately puffed out his chest with pride at being addressed as the shopkeeper. "Of course we do! Follow me!" he declared, then clattered toward the inner room, still dragging the King of Yue Sword.

Zhao Ji frowned, clearly disapproving of his cousin's tactic of deceiving a child. But Zhao Lingrang knew his cousin's weakness. Smiling, he said, "Cousin, if even this child knows which painting is most precious, it must be extraordinary. And while the shop isn't officially open yet, we can reserve the best pieces before others snatch them up." Without waiting for Zhao Ji's response, he hurried after the boy.Zhao Ji also knew that Zhao Lingrang was right—many antique shops had prized treasures that were rarely shown to others. In this Dumb Shop, where a Yue King’s sword from the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods could be given to a child as a toy, and Emperor Taizong of Tang’s imperial calligraphy served as couplets on pillars, the painting or calligraphy acting as the shop’s treasure must be even more unimaginable.

After hesitating for a moment, Zhao Ji walked toward the inner room. Just as he rounded a large mica-glazed screen, he heard Zhao Lingrang, who had gone ahead, exclaim angrily, "You little brat! How dare you trick me, young master?"

"I wasn't lying to you! The Boss said this place has the best, and I've never been inside either!" A young boy's aggrieved voice rang out. Unable to articulate much, he couldn't properly explain himself. Stamping his foot in frustration, he dashed outside, the tip of his Yue King Sword scraping against the ground with a grating sound. As he ran past Zhao Ji, he didn't forget to look up and make an exaggerated grimace at him.

"What's going on?" Zhao Ji asked in confusion as he saw Zhao Lingrang chasing after the boy.

"That room clearly had four blank sheets of paper hanging inside! And that rascal took the chance to snatch my sachet. It was specially embroidered for me by Yingying!" Zhao Lingrang explained in exasperation before hastily continuing his pursuit of the young boy.

Zhao Ji was greatly surprised. He couldn't believe that what hung there were merely four blank sheets of paper, yet Zhao Lingrang had no reason to deceive him. Having come this far, an inexplicable impulse drove him toward the unlocked room.

The room had no windows and no other furnishings, only a Changxin Palace Lantern burning on the circular table at its center. When Zhao Ji looked at the four walls, an overwhelming joy surged through his heart.

What hung on these four walls were clearly four exquisitely painted landscape paintings! The scenes depicted in all four paintings were identical, differing only in the seasons represented - one each for spring, summer, autumn, and winter. When Zhao Ji saw the signature at the corner of the paintings, even his well-traveled self couldn't help but tremble slightly. These were actually the legendary Four Seasons Picture by Zhan Ziqian!

The compositions of the four paintings were majestic and serene, with colors of ancient elegance. Standing at the room's center, Zhao Ji slowly turned, shifting his perspective, and it suddenly felt as if the four seasons were cycling through his vision. Scholars and ladies enjoying spring outings, children playing in a summer stream, an elderly man melancholy among fallen leaves, a traveler hastening through snow... Zhao Ji was completely captivated, not pausing to wonder why Zhao Lingrang had called them blank sheets of paper, until a voice abruptly spoke.

"You can see these four paintings?"

Zhao Ji started as if awakened from a dream, suddenly realizing he was no longer alone in the room. A young man stood at the doorway, having appeared unnoticed. He wore ancient clothing from the Qin and Han dynasties - a Wrapped Robe with wide sleeves and a fitted cut, the black straight hem elegantly draping to his feet, accentuating his jade-like complexion. He looked exactly like a figure who had stepped out of an ancient painting. Becoming aware of his impolite staring, Zhao Ji quickly coughed lightly to cover his embarrassment and asked, "You are..."

"The owner of this shop." The other man smiled slightly, giving an answer that surprised Zhao Ji.

Zhao Ji hadn't expected the antique shop owner to be so young, though judging by his demeanor, he might be from a wealthy family that had fallen on hard times. Knowing he was at fault, Zhao Ji clasped his hands respectfully and said sincerely, "I've been presumptuous, intruding without permission. Please forgive my offense."

"No matter. Le'er must have brought you here. He's always mischievous." The Boss chuckled lightly, clearly having no solution for the child's behavior.

"Your son is lively and adorable. He'll surely achieve great things in the future." Zhao Ji also smiled, thinking of how Zhao Lingrang, having been tricked, still hadn't returned - probably suffering quite the torment from that little imp."He's not my son, just... a relative's child." The boss slightly raised his eyebrows and explained calmly. As if unwilling to continue this topic, he turned toward the scrolls hanging on the wall and asked, "Can you see these four paintings?"

"Of course I can." Zhao Ji nodded in confusion. Although the room was dimly lit, it was bright enough for him to see the scenery on these four paintings, even the fine details of the branches clearly visible. "This Zhan Ziqian's 'Four Seasons Picture'—boss, how much would you take for it?"

The boss didn't speak but stared at him with an unfathomable gaze. Zhao Ji openly let him look, thinking the other was considering what price to set. After a long while, the boss said quietly, "You can't afford it."

Zhao Ji frowned. As a prince of the Great Song Dynasty, there were few things he couldn't afford. He secretly thought this must be the other's trick to drive up the price, yet he couldn't help but snort coldly, "Just name your price, and I can afford it!" He rarely acted so impulsively normally, but the moment he saw these four paintings, he couldn't suppress the longing in his heart, feeling an unparalleled fondness for them. Believing that a treasure one loves is beyond price, he decided to obtain these four paintings at any cost.

The boss then looked at him, his expression turning somewhat serious, and said calmly, "To possess these four paintings, you must maintain your original heart."

"Original heart?" Zhao Ji never expected the boss to mention this completely unrelated term and couldn't help but freeze for a moment.

"If offered ten thousand bushels of grain, one might accept without considering ritual and righteousness—what benefit would ten thousand bushels bring me? For the beauty of palaces, the service of wives and concubines, or the recognition of the impoverished who seek my favor..." the boss spoke slowly, his clear voice echoing throughout the room, serene and forthright.

"...Can this not be stopped? This is called losing one's original heart." Zhao Ji continued his words. This passage comes from "Mencius: Gaozi," and the concept of "original heart" also originates from here, referring to the heart of integrity and shame. Mencius illustrated in the text that some people, facing life and death, would rather die than yield or even sacrifice themselves for righteousness, yet in times of peace, they might pursue fame and profit shamelessly and by any means, losing their original stance and virtue.

"Yes, if you wish to possess these four paintings, you must maintain your original heart." The boss's tone was very indifferent, as if deeply distrustful of his ability to do so.

Zhao Ji laughed in extreme anger, "Oh? Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all." The boss still smiled faintly. "Since you've decided to take these four paintings, then touch the paper of these four paintings with your hand. They will bring you endless power and wealth, but if you cannot maintain your original heart, they will mercilessly take it all back and demand multiple times the repayment."

Zhao Ji indifferently reached out and casually touched the four pieces of paper, but the favorable impression he had of this antique shop vanished completely during this conversation. If not for the fact that these four paintings were authentic, he would have turned and left long ago.

Zhao Ji laughed to himself, thinking, "I'm already a prince—what position could offer more endless power and wealth than this?"As his fingers withdrew from the final "Treading Snow" painting, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. Zhao Lingrang rushed in with a panicked expression, stammering, "C-cousin! Terrible news! The... the palace sent word that... that..."

A sense of foreboding rose in Zhao Ji's heart as he demanded sharply, "That what?"

Clenching his teeth, Zhao Lingrang fell to his knees with a thud. "They say the Emperor is critically ill!" These words struck Zhao Ji's ears like thunder. After a momentary blankness, Zhao Ji instinctively realized: his imperial brother still had no heir to the throne... This position held far greater power and wealth than his current princely status...

Could these four paintings bring him infinite power and wealth?

Zhao Ji subconsciously glanced toward the Boss, and upon meeting the subtle smile at the corner of his lips, he felt himself growing dazed.

The Boss stood alone in the room, contemplating the Four Seasons Picture hanging on the walls, remaining silent for a long time. He couldn't comprehend why the Four Seasons Picture had chosen Zhao Ji as its destined owner.

"Have they left?" A clear child's voice interrupted the Boss's contemplation.

"Le'er, give me the Yue King Sword." The Boss extended his hand toward the little boy at the doorway, his expression stern.

After hesitating briefly, Le'er glanced at the Boss's face and reluctantly handed over the sword, complaining sulkily, "Le'er can't pull it out, and no one else can either!"

Taking the Yue King Sword, the Boss gently patted Le'er's soft hair and said with a faint smile, "You're not this sword's master, so of course you can't draw it."

Le'er pouted, but being a child, he quickly forgot his displeasure. Noticing the change in the room, he exclaimed in surprise, "Huh? The paintings!" He had clearly seen four blank sheets earlier—how had they turned into ink wash paintings? Le'er shot a disdainful look at the Boss, thinking that the earlier gentleman had blamed the wrong person—he hadn't been lying! It was the Boss who deceived everyone!

"When the Four Seasons Picture acknowledges its master, it naturally reveals itself." The Boss sighed. "I just wonder how long it will last this time."

Le'er tilted his head, listening with partial understanding, but wisely refrained from interrupting.

"Though possessing keen perception and noble intentions, once attaining wealth and status, one often betrays kin and abandons old ways, losing their original heart..." The Boss's calm voice flowed through the silent room like an enigmatic prophecy...

Zhao Lingrang adjusted his robes and entered the side hall of Yanfu Palace.

Zhao Ji, who had been emperor for two years now, stood at the center of the room wearing bright yellow informal attire, intently admiring the "Children Playing in Water" painting hanging before him.

Fanning himself with his folding fan, Zhao Lingrang found the poorly ventilated room increasingly stifling in midsummer, wondering how his cousin could bear it. He knew the paintings hanging on the walls were the same ones the Boss of Dumb Shop had personally delivered after Zhao Ji's ascension to the throne. That they came without any payment completely surprised him. He had assumed the earlier display of four blank sheets had been some mysterious scheme, never expecting the other party would make no demands at all.But this was merely a trivial matter, and Zhao Lingrang quickly put it out of his mind. He gazed admiringly at Zhao Ji before him—his cousin, who had ascended the throne at the age of nineteen, had repeatedly issued edicts seeking candid advice, purged treacherous officials, redressed wrongful convictions, and heeded loyal counsel. All of these actions had earned unanimous praise from both the court and the public.

Yet Zhao Lingrang felt a vague unease. The conflict between the New and Old Parties had raged fiercely during Emperor Zhezong’s reign, and he believed many were uncertain whether the New Party’s reforms or the Old Party’s conservatism was preferable. Recently, however, there were subtle signs of policy shifts. Due to the constraints of his imperial clan status, Zhao Lingrang had little involvement in political affairs, but he had heard that these changes under Zhao Ji were closely linked to the rapid rise of Cai Jing in the court.

Cai Jing had gained Zhao Ji’s favor through his exceptional calligraphy. Zhao Lingrang had met Cai Jing a few times and held no favorable impression of him, yet he did not know how to broach the subject with Zhao Ji. Their relationship was no longer that of simple cousins; he could no longer address Zhao Ji as casually as "cousin" as he once had. Whether in private or public, he could only kneel humbly, lowering his head in deference.

Seeing Zhao Ji emerge from his reverie, Zhao Lingrang hurriedly knelt according to customary etiquette. "Greetings, Your Majesty." (Note: During the Song Dynasty, the emperor was referred to as "Your Majesty." The term originated from the idea that "the Three Sovereigns ruled all under heaven as officials, and the Five Emperors treated it as their family," symbolizing the emperor’s impartiality and selflessness.)

"Rise," Zhao Ji said, his face having shed the boyishness of his youth, now exuding an air of lofty authority. "Danian, I summoned you today to ponder whether the Yanfu Palace might be a bit too small."

Zhao Lingrang contemplated the implied meaning behind these words and was startled to realize that his cousin intended to expand the palace. The Yanfu Palace had always served as a retreat for the Song emperors, renowned for its elegance and charm, yet no emperor had ever found it too small... Zhao Lingrang felt the air in the room grow increasingly stifling, almost suffocating him.

He knew he had to say something. His throat itching with discomfort, Zhao Lingrang forced a strained laugh and heard himself reply, "...Your humble brother also thinks so."

Zhao Ji was greatly pleased, nodding with a smile. "Indeed, it is far too warm in here. Let us step outside to discuss the details!" With that, he led the way out of the side hall.

Zhao Lingrang took a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the sweat from his brow.

It is easy to adapt to luxury but hard to return to frugality. If expanding the Yanfu Palace was only the beginning, what would come next... Zhao Lingrang dared not dwell on it. Once, Zhao Ji had recounted the origin of these four paintings as if telling a jest, claiming the price for them was to "maintain one’s true heart." Zhao Lingrang smiled bitterly. Now, not only his cousin but even he himself could no longer uphold that true heart, willingly speaking words contrary to his conscience.

With a silent sigh, Zhao Lingrang turned and exited the side hall. As he did, the brushstrokes of the painting "Children Playing in Water" on the wall began to fade gradually...

Zhao Ji, having changed into casual attire and accompanied by several guards, strolled along East Avenue.

Time flowed by like rushing water—he had already been on the throne for a full decade.He considered himself a good emperor. Although the tedious state affairs were difficult to handle, Prime Minister Cai had taken care of them all, allowing him time and energy to devote to his greatest passion—calligraphy and painting. He oversaw the Hanlin Academy, established the Xuanhe Painting Academy, and personally served as its director. Recently, he had been compiling works such as Xuanhe Calligraphy Catalog, Xuanhe Painting Catalog, and Xuanhe Illustrated Antiquities.

But something had happened recently that left him utterly perplexed, and he urgently needed someone to explain it. According to his informants, the antique shop named Dumb Shop had been closed for several days. It was said that a funeral had been held there a few days earlier.

Had the Boss died? Zhao Ji frowned. Over the years, he had never once visited Dumb Shop—why would this happen so coincidentally? Several guards, guessing the emperor’s thoughts, ignored the shop’s closed state, forcibly cut the iron lock on the door, and pushed their way in.

Upon entering, Zhao Ji found the interior almost identical to how it had been a decade ago, with the same antiques arranged exactly as before. He couldn’t understand it—had the shop’s business been so dismal that not a single antique had been sold in ten years? For a moment, Zhao Ji felt as if he had stepped back in time, especially when he saw the Boss of Dumb Shop slowly emerge from the inner room.

His features were as youthful as they had been ten years earlier, without the slightest change. He still wore the same dark black Hanfu, his face pale as a sheet of paper.

Zhao Ji immediately guessed who had passed away. He sighed and said, “My condolences.”

There had only been two people in Dumb Shop when he first encountered it years ago. Since the Boss was here, the one in the coffin must be Le’er. Ten years ago, Le’er was two years old; even after a decade, he would only have been twelve. Having witnessed the premature deaths of several of his own sons over the years, Zhao Ji felt a sudden surge of shared sorrow with the Boss.

“It’s nothing. His time had come, and he was meant to go,” the Boss said, his face pale, as if indifferent to the loss of the child he had cherished for so many years. He then asked calmly, “What important matter brings Your Majesty here today?”

hao Ji detected impatience in the other’s tone but didn’t take offense. After all, anyone who had just lost a loved one would be in a poor mood. Zhao Ji gestured to a guard beside him, who promptly handed over a narrow brocade box. With another wave of his hand, the guards filed out in an orderly manner, leaving Zhao Ji alone with the Boss.

Zhao Ji carefully opened the brocade box, took out a scroll, and unrolled it on the long table.

The painting was completely blank.

Seeing the empty canvas, the Boss raised an eyebrow in understanding and asked calmly, “Which piece from the Four Seasons Picture is this?”

Zhao Ji nervously licked his lips and replied, “It’s Children Playing in Water. Spring Outing is still hanging fine. Actually, this Children Playing in Water had already turned blank some time ago. I thought a palace attendant had accidentally damaged the painting and replaced it with a blank sheet. But yesterday, I noticed that even Falling Leaves has started to fade. That’s when I realized something was wrong…”The Boss smiled faintly and spoke unhurriedly, "Everything in this world operates on fairness. Since you chose to obtain boundless power and wealth yet failed to maintain your original integrity, the Four Seasons Picture naturally demands corresponding compensation."

"What compensation?" Zhao Ji asked urgently.

"This is 'Children Playing in Water'," the Boss merely smiled without directly answering, instead calmly repeating the painting's name.

Zhao Ji felt as if someone had grabbed him by the throat, rendered completely speechless. Though he was twenty-nine this year, aside from his eldest son born before his ascension, not a single prince had survived to adulthood - all had died prematurely without exception... He had vaguely sensed something amiss; one or two children dying might be accidental, but every child failing to live past five was utterly bizarre... He had always suspected covert curses or poison, yet never imagined the paintings were the cause...

"Boss... how... how can this be resolved?" Even as ruler of a nation, Zhao Ji knew he was merely mortal, powerless against such supernatural matters.

The Boss remained silent, raising his hand to slowly reroll the scroll. Only then did Zhao Ji notice the neat cut on the right wide sleeve of the Boss's Hanfu, as if sliced by a sharp sword. Recognizing this garment must be the Boss's treasured possession - else why would he wear it for ten years, unwilling to replace it even when torn - Zhao Ji sought to curry favor: "Boss, this damaged robe should be taken to the Imperial Embroidery Institute for mending. I guarantee their needlework surpasses divine craftsmanship."

The Boss paused in rolling the scroll, clearly moved by the suggestion. The Imperial Embroidery Institute was Zhao Ji's personal workshop - perhaps there lay hope. He wasn't ready to die yet. Le'er was Fusu's reincarnation, and though he remained powerless to prevent the child's fate of dying at twelve, he refused to accept it. Having endured for millennia, even accidentally wounded by the Yue King's sword through his garment, he still longed to continue living. This was his sole obsession, and Zhao Ji had precisely identified his vulnerability.

"Your Majesty, this robe isn't ordinary fabric. Common embroiderers cannot handle it," the Boss said with shifting eyes, "Moreover, I must remain in the same room during its repair."

Zhao Ji nodded repeatedly, considering this trivial. He had discerned the garment must be a Qin-Han era antique, explaining the Boss's deep attachment.

After profound contemplation, the Boss closed the Dumb Shop's antique store and followed Zhao Ji to his suburban palace, Yanfu Palace.

Yanfu Palace had been officially ordered for renovation and expansion in spring of the third year of Zhenghe, later acclaimed as the Five Yanfu Districts. The newly constructed palace stretched east-west equally with the main imperial palace, only slightly smaller north-south, essentially serving as Zhao Ji's personally built alternate palace. Extending from Jinglong Gate in the east to Tianbo Gate in the west, its magnificent halls and elegant scenery encompassed dozens of pavilions and towers. Artificial mountains stood sculpted from stone, seas carved from pools, lakes formed from springs, all adorned with wondrous rare animals and exquisite flora - truly an earthly paradise. Since the Five Yanfu Districts' completion, Zhao Ji had spent most of his time here, reluctant to depart.Such a magnificent and splendid palace was indeed intended by Zhao Ji to show off to others. However, as he led the Boss along the way, he noticed no trace of astonishment on the Boss's face. Instead, the Boss remained indifferent to the breathtaking scenery before him.

Zhao Ji took a deep breath and resolved to take the Boss to see the Wan Shou Mountain once it was completed, convinced that it would surely move him. Gazing at the lush, exotic flowers and the orderly rows of pavilions and towers, the Boss sighed helplessly in his heart.

With such a foolish ruler, it was no wonder that The Falling Leaves Painting had begun to wither! The Boss settled in a side hall of the Yanfu Palace. The palace was now vast and expansive, and accommodating one more person was hardly an issue. Although Zhao Ji had initially entertained him with great enthusiasm for the first few days, he gradually stopped visiting when he saw that the Boss showed no intention of advising him on how to preserve his lineage.

As for the Four Seasons Picture, Zhao Ji only kept the well-preserved "Spring Outing" and "Treading on Snow," while the blank "Children Playing in Water" and the faint "Fallen Leaves" had been sent to the Boss's residence. The Boss stored away "Children Playing in Water," while "Fallen Leaves" was hung in the side hall where he temporarily stayed.

Zhao Lingrang often came to chat with him—perhaps because, as an idle member of the imperial clan with little to do, or more likely due to his disappointment with the current state of the court and the country, he would drink upon arrival and then launch into a series of complaints.

"Hey! I say, Boss! Do you really have a way to help my cousin have a son?" Zhao Lingrang swayed his wine cup, already drunk. Only when intoxicated could he refer to the current emperor as his cousin. When sober, he had to address him respectfully as "Your Majesty."

The Boss smiled faintly and said, "He was the one eagerly insisting on helping me mend the clothes. I never agreed to help him." Zhao Lingrang was stunned for a moment, then nodded in admiration. "What a cunning merchant, truly a cunning merchant! I'm impressed! Impressed!"

A cunning merchant? The Boss lowered his head to look at the half-stitched, deep crimson Dragon Claw on his right hand. He insisted on wearing the clothes every day after the embroiderers had worked on them. Zhao Ji must have already learned from reports that the red thread used for the stitching was actually soaked in his blood.

The fabric of his garment was no ordinary material. Each thread pattern had a specific arrangement and could not be randomly mended, nor could it be repaired with common silk thread.

To restore this garment perfectly, Zhao Ji had even personally drawn the embroidery design for the Dragon.

Hah... The Boss chuckled softly. Zhao Ji had most likely guessed the purpose of this garment, hadn't he? The Boss sneered inwardly. In truth, he probably wanted to claim this garment for himself, didn't he? Otherwise, how could a commoner like him wear clothes embroidered with a Dragon? The Dragon Pattern was reserved exclusively for the imperial family. What Zhao Ji schemed for was the day when he could eventually wear this garment himself.

Unaware of the Boss's unusual thoughts, Zhao Lingrang continued pouring wine and complaining, "Cunning merchants are one thing, but the most detestable are treacherous ministers! That Cai Jing actually wants to rebuild the city walls designed by Emperor Taizu himself!"

Hearing this, the Boss was also taken aback. Dongjing Bianliang was located in the heart of the land, a flat plain vulnerable to military conflicts. With no natural barriers like mountains or strategic passes—only convenient water transport and developed traffic—it was difficult to defend. To compensate for the lack of natural defenses, Bianjing had no choice but to reinforce its city walls, constructing thick and sturdy fortifications to replace mountainous terrain, and relying on heavily armored troops to serve as substitutes for strategic passes.

The city construction blueprint personally designed by Emperor Taizu of Song was as intricate and winding as a word puzzle. At the time, no one could decipher Emperor Taizu's intentions, but they faithfully built the walls according to the design, which had safeguarded the Great Song's peace and stability for centuries.

"That Cai Jing actually thinks the outer walls are a messy eyesore! He wants to order the reconstruction of the outer walls, turning those winding fortifications into a rigid, square '口' shape! Isn't this sheer nonsense?" Zhao Lingrang, fueled by alcohol, slammed the table in a drunken rage. He wanted to say more, but the alcohol had already dulled his mind, and he soon fell into a deep sleep.The Boss gazed at the faint, nearly indiscernible "Falling Leaves Painting" on the wall, his expression inscrutable. He remarked lightly, "It truly is absurd. Surrounding a person with words—isn't that just the character for 'prisoner'?" The Crimson Dragon robe had taken two full years to embroider. Threads dyed with the Boss's blood, combined with the skill of dozens of master embroiderers from the Imperial Embroidery Institute, brought the red dragon to life so vividly it seemed to claw and writhe across the fabric, awe-inspiring in its realism as if destined one day to reign over the world. Perfection—those two words said it all.

Yet Zhao Ji never obtained the robe as he had wished. Before he could cast aside decorum to seize it, the Boss had already departed. Like a phantom, he vanished without a trace from the heavily guarded imperial palace.

He took only the blank scroll of "Children Playing in Water." The faint "Falling Leaves Painting" remained solitary on the wall, each time Zhao Ji saw it stirring a palpitation in his heart, a grip of panic seizing him so tightly he dared not look long. He ordered it stored away.

The Four Seasons Picture had already claimed his heirs. He refused to ponder what it might take from him next.

Two years passed in dread. At thirty-three, Zhao Ji still had no children aside from the crown prince. One day, Zhao Lingrang brought a Maoshan Taoist priest who, after surveying the palace's feng shui, declared the northeastern Gen position too low, hindering offspring. Zhao Ji raised that corner, constructing an elegantly shaped hill.

Strangely, once the hill was complete, joyous news followed one after another from the inner palace—princes were born in succession, each robust and lively. Thus convinced the Four Seasons Picture was mere trickery, Zhao Ji grew ever more devoted to Taoist practices.

The protracted city wall renovation was completed piecemeal. As time flew, Zhao Ji became obsessed with grand constructions. The Flower and Stone Convoy plunged the people into misery, yet he ignored all affairs, indulging in pleasure.

Then the Jin troops marched south, besieging Bianjing. Their commander, seeing the uniform walls, delightedly positioned catapults at the corners, battering them systematically. The straightened walls made easy targets—a single catapult strike shattered the newly built defenses. The entire Song capital lay exposed like a maiden stripped of her robes, powerless against the Jin cavalry's invasion.

Standing hesitant in the bitter wind, Zhao Ji's mind was in turmoil. Within the palace, breathtaking scenery still met the eye, yet distant cannon roars echoed faintly. Though surrounded by enchanting views, he felt plunged into a hellish realm.

He clutched the rolled-up "Treading Snow Painting." Days earlier, as the Jin army encircled the city, he had thought of the Four Seasons Picture. But when he sought the "Falling Leaves Painting," he found only a blank sheet of paper.

Two years prior, he had abdicated, passing the throne to the crown prince. Renouncing the ultimate authority had not reversed their defeat.Was it his kingdom they came to take this time? The palace had descended into chaos, with maids and eunuchs fleeing through the gates as if doomsday had arrived, ignoring the guards' attempts to stop them. Initially, the guards brandished their swords, killing some as warnings, but Zhao Ji couldn't bear the sight and waved for them to let the people go. Instantly, the palace fell into disarray; the once magnificent halls seemed to transform into man-eating monsters, driving everyone to scramble for the exits.

Zhao Ji's heart ached as he saw a pot of Sichuan peony overturned on the ground, neglected by all. Eventually, he couldn't resist stepping forward to lift it himself, gently brushing the dust from its petals. He stared blankly at the flower in full bloom, the sounds of cannon fire and screams fading into the distance, leaving an unexpected tranquility in his heart.

The world cursed him as a foolish ruler, indulging in pleasure, but... but... his hand trembled as he caressed the petal. At his core, he was merely a leisurely prince who loved writing, painting, and tending to flowers and plants.

Suddenly, a sigh seemed to drift from afar. Zhao Ji followed the sound and glimpsed a familiar crimson red Dragon amidst the clamoring crowd, but it vanished in the blink of an eye.

Was it him? Had he come to reclaim the "Fallen Leaves Picture"?

"Your Majesty, please retreat to Yanfu Palace!" a guard approached and whispered. Zhao Ji took one last, longing look at the palace where he had grown up, choking back tears without a word.

"All night the west wind shakes the broken door, / In lonely desolation a lone lamp glows faint. / Looking back, my homeland is three thousand miles away, / My gaze cuts off the southern mountains, no wild geese in flight."

Zhao Ji had never imagined in his life that he would become a prisoner.

He was once the supreme emperor! But now, after nine years of captivity in the far northern Five Nations City, he endured a bitter existence.

Zhao Ji raised his hand to gaze at the full moon in the sky; today was the Lantern Festival on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month. During his reign, every Lantern Festival was celebrated with all-night lantern viewings. The lights of Bianjing would burn through the entire night without extinguishing. From the main palace gate, colorful decorations formed mountain-like towers, lanterns filled the courtyards, candlelight bright as day, stretching endlessly in a spectacular display. Oh, and they would burn a cartload of eaglewood, culminating in fireworks soaring into the sky...

In a daze, he could almost smell that enchanting eaglewood fragrance and see the brilliant fireworks trailing dazzling streaks across the night sky...

Zhao Ji tightened his only thin autumn garment around himself. During the nine years of northern captivity, lack of food and clothing was common, and many of his sons had starved to death. He closed his eyes, bitter tears streaming down uncontrollably. He couldn't bear to think of it, yet the images of his sons, pale and emaciated, groaning in pain, surfaced before his eyes.

Slowly unrolling the "Treading Snow Picture" in his hand, only this painting from the Four Seasons Picture remained with him. The Jin people had seized all his possessions, leaving only this one behind, perhaps because the artwork had faded into obscurity, and those unfamiliar with Central Plains culture mistook it for mere scribbles.

Suddenly, his heart stirred. Zhao Ji sensed something and looked up, his eyes first meeting the vivid crimson red Dragon amidst the swirling snowflakes."You... you've finally come." Zhao Ji gazed at the Boss's eternally youthful face with mixed emotions. He had aged, his temples streaked with white, withered like a useless man—nothing remained of the youthful arrogance that once rode horses through the imperial city. Yet the other remained as young as when they first met over thirty years ago.

"Yes, I've come to reclaim this 'Treading Snow Painting'," the Boss replied with a faint smile, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

"Why me? Why was it me!" Zhao Ji felt a knot of suffocating frustration in his chest, a question he had longed to ask during his nine years of imprisonment. "Why was I chosen for the Four Seasons Picture?"

A mocking smile curled at the corner of the Boss's lips as he said calmly, "It's rather ironic. This dynasty is a peculiar one. It possesses dazzling prosperity and a culture unmatched by later generations, yet it suffers from entrenched poverty and weakness, repeatedly pressured by other ethnic groups. Though court disputes abound, it maintains a clarity rarely seen in previous dynasties—even a scholar-official could criticize current politics without persecution. Technologically, it grows ever more astonishing: movable type printing, gunpowder, and the compass—these three inventions will undoubtedly reshape the future."

The Boss paused, his typically detached eyes now unusually filled with emotion—sorrow, regret, and anger.

"But... printing, which could spread culture, was used to print Taoist scriptures; gunpowder, which could defeat enemies, was made into fireworks for amusement; and the compass, which could navigate the seas for exploration, was used for feng shui..." The Boss's words cut like sharp blades, each strike piercing Zhao Ji's heart. Overwhelmed with anguish, he knelt in the snow, knowing he had destroyed the legacy left by his ancestors—a sinner for all eternity.

He knew well why only the "Spring Outing Painting" in the Four Seasons Picture retained its vividness—because, until he turned twenty, he had lived true to his original heart. But after ascending the throne, he remained a good emperor for merely a year and a half before absolute power and wealth corrupted him.

If given another chance to start over, what would he do? Would he strive to become a wise ruler? If his elder brother hadn't died, if he had remained a carefree prince, would the Great Song Dynasty have flourished like the midday sun?

Zhao Ji felt snowflakes land on his face, melting into tiny droplets that slowly traced paths down his cheeks before falling to the snow, crystallizing into glistening ice beads.

How beautiful... the snow falling densely from the sky, blanketing the world in silver, like an elegant maiden of pure ice sitting gracefully upright. If he had a brush in hand, he would paint this scene—not the endless political affairs and court entanglements...

How laughable, how utterly laughable. At death's door, his heart... still clung to these feeble thoughts. And the most absurd part was that this was the so-called ideal he had pursued his entire life.

He never wanted to be an emperor wielding immense power. Human suffering stems from pursuing the wrong things.

Seeing Zhao Ji's bewildered expression, the Boss fell silent.

How many people can maintain their original heart amid boundless power and wealth? Not just Zhao Ji—even that Zhao Lingrang had gradually betrayed his own heart over time.The Boss sighed. Wasn't he the same? Could he claim his own original heart hadn't strayed?

"Next life, just be a simple painter..." The Boss withdrew the "Snow-Treading Painting" from Zhao Ji's grasp. Zhao Ji felt an intense reluctance, using all his strength to clench his palm, yet he couldn't hold onto the scroll. He watched helplessly as the painting slipped through his fingers like flowing water, the stark white paper as pure as the snow on the ground.

Zhao Ji slowly closed his eyes. He knew this time the Four Seasons Picture was taking away his life...

Five

The story ended amidst the swirling snowflakes. Long after the Boss had finished speaking, the Doctor still found it unbelievable. That painter was actually the reincarnation of Emperor Huizong of Song, Zhao Ji? He always knew the customers of the Dumb Shop were anything but ordinary! But that insufferably arrogant young man turned out to be the supreme emperor!

"The fall of the Northern Song wasn't entirely his fault. His elder brother did well because Emperor Zhezong ascended the throne before he was ten, receiving education specifically designed for an imperial heir. Zhao Ji was born to be an idle prince - the Song dynasty was extremely wary of imperial clansmen. The farthest they could travel was to the imperial tombs in the suburbs for worship, never permitted to leave the capital their entire lives, never allowed to participate in court politics..." The Boss spoke calmly, recalling how Zhao Lingrang was actually quite a rare talent. Pity he was confined by ancestral rules for imperial clansmen, unable to realize his ambitions, and could only express himself through landscape paintings, drinking and enjoying pleasures.

The Doctor sighed deeply, unsure how to respond, when he saw the painter emerge from the inner room, followed by the Curator leaning on his cane.

"You're out early today," the Boss remarked with some puzzlement.

"Well, finished painting, so naturally I'm out early," the painter said with a curl of his lips. Though usually arrogant, he was being uncharacteristically polite to the Boss.

The Doctor, never one to read social cues, immediately grew curious upon hearing the painting was finished and asked eagerly, "Can I take a look?"

Though visibly irritated by the Doctor's familiarity, the painter reluctantly unrolled the painting from its case and carefully spread it on the counter, doing so only out of respect for the Boss. The "Snow-Treading Painting" actually depicted the same scene as the "Spring Outing Painting," just in a different season. The eighty-centimeter-long scroll portrayed magnificent mountains and snow-treading travelers within its limited dimensions. The painting showed vast spaces where water met sky, with green mountains and white snow, shimmering lakes, and a traveler riding through the snow as flakes danced in the air - a scene of crystalline white beauty. The landscape emphasized blue and white colors, with golden ochre at the mountain bases. Tree trunks were directly painted with reddish-brown pigment, while accumulated snow on leaves was created with horizontal water-settled dots. Pine trees weren't detailed with individual needles but directly dotted with bitter green. Figures were initially painted with powder white before heavier colors were added to define clothing folds.

The Doctor had always believed Chinese landscape paintings couldn't match Western oil paintings in realism, but upon close inspection, he found this painting truly deserved the evaluation "a thousand miles of interest within a foot."" Within the small scroll, it displayed scenery spanning thousands of miles.

Nodding repeatedly though unable to articulate why, the Doctor instinctively asked, "Is this for sale? How much?" In his mind, all painters naturally painted to sell their work - otherwise why bother painting at all?The Curator was practically fuming with frustration as he listened on the side—he wanted to bid too! But the painting had been created stroke by stroke over days, and he felt that even the thought of buying it would be a desecration of the artist's effort! The painter, with his arrogant expression, was clearly someone who thought highly of himself, and the Doctor's words were bound to offend him!

But unexpectedly, the painter immediately replied, "I'll sell it." He then gestured a number with his hand. The Doctor gasped in shock and said, "That's too expensive! Can you lower the price a bit?" For someone on a salary like him, it was an astronomical sum.

The Curator frantically gestured, indicating that he could pay that amount. But before he could speak, the painter calmly stated, "No discounts." As he spoke, he slowly began tearing the painting apart.

The Curator's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Unable to save it in time, he pounded his chest in regret. Good heavens! Even if he didn't have heart problems, they'd surely give him one! That painting was absolutely worth the price he'd asked! No one in the world knew what the other three parts of the Four Seasons Picture looked like—this copy was utterly precious!

The Doctor watched in astonishment as the painter tore apart the work he had spent years creating. He sighed helplessly and said, "I was just haggling a little! Why did you have to tear it up?"

"It's nothing. I believe this painting is worth the price, but your bargaining shows that in your heart, it's not good enough. If it's not good enough, why keep it? I'll just strive to do better with my next piece." The painter lifted his chin proudly, tossed the torn painting into a nearby furnace, picked up his painting tube, and left with an air of nonchalance.

The Doctor was left speechless and was later scolded thoroughly by the Curator, who had finally recovered. Only then did he realize that artists were the hardest to please—a single misplaced word could offend them, as if their brainwaves were on completely different frequencies!

After finally seeing the Curator off, the Doctor slumped into his chair, too exhausted to move. The Boss laughed and said, "Don't take it to heart. In this lifetime, he has never hidden his true self, living freely and much more at ease."

"I'm not taking it to heart!" the Doctor snorted. That painter was definitely a perfectionist who had long wanted to destroy that painting and had just used this as an excuse. "No matter what his personality is like, he's still eccentric. No wonder I couldn't stand him back then!" He naturally understood that in the story, the twelve-year-old Le'er, who died young, must have been Fusu's reincarnation.

"That was just one of your reincarnations; you have no memory of it," the Boss said with a light laugh.

"Hmph, who says? Maybe I do remember!" the Doctor retorted defiantly.

"Oh? So you're saying you remember being in a relationship with a man?" the Boss dropped a bombshell casually.

"What?!" The Doctor felt as if he had been struck by lightning! He nearly fell out of his chair.

"Heh, that's another story…"

(End of Chapter)