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墨書 Inktalez
The young man, in a strict sense, could only be considered a boy by appearance, yet he was anything but ordinary. He was Mr. You Ran's attendant, Shutong, and also the only disciple of Mr. You Ran. His status at You Ran Mountain was esteemed, and it was rumored that he had suffered from a peculiar ailment for many years without any change. However, Mo Wen was skeptical of this rumor. In this extraordinary world, while there were indeed many remarkable individuals, those who could maintain their appearance unchanged typically achieved this by reaching a certain realm of cultivation. At this moment, the young man did not seem like someone afflicted by a strange illness; rather, he appeared to have cultivated to a certain realm.
As for Mr. You Ran's disciple, no one knew what he looked like. It was said that Mr. You Ran had traveled far and wide a century ago, leaving behind this young man and the You Ran Ju, along with his mysterious disciple.
“Thank you all for gracing us with your presence,” the young man said with a bow. “This gathering includes both those who reside in these mountains and those who have traveled from afar. On behalf of my master, I express my gratitude to you all.” He bowed again and continued, “Although this Poetry Gathering is an annual event at You Ran Mountain, the number of invitees is limited to just fifty here today. I believe some of you are already aware that each Poetry Gathering has traditionally revolved around a painting as its theme. I hope that today someone will be able to conclude this topic. Of course, there will be compensation for your contributions.” With a wave of his sleeve, a painting descended onto the pavilion in the center of the small lake. “You have two hours to contemplate it; I will return at that time.” With that, he clasped his hands in salute and returned to the main hall.
As for the painting hanging in the pavilion, everyone present had some level of training; even those at the Warrior Stage could easily discern its content. Mo Wen's gaze followed the crowd as they turned towards the small pavilion on the lake.
“Pfft! Cough cough!” The tea he had just sipped sprayed out unexpectedly; fortunately, he was in a corner or it would have splattered onto others. This commotion drew everyone's attention, and he quickly adjusted his clothing and offered a slight bow to the crowd. It was no wonder Mo Wen lost his composure; the painting had shocked him. Had he not known beforehand that it depicted a woman sitting by a railing, he would not have recognized it at all; now it seemed only vaguely familiar.
“Brother, did you perhaps decipher this riddle?” Some people noticed Mo Wen's bowing but were unaware of what had transpired and thought he was about to share some profound insights.
“Uh, to be honest with you all, I do have some thoughts on it. This is an abstract painting featuring a stunningly beautiful woman sitting by a railing with a sorrowful expression on her face.” With no other choice but to speak up, Mo Wen found himself fabricating words on the spot. After saying this, he fell silent and inwardly chastised himself for telling such an absurd lie.
It was no wonder that over the years no one had been able to solve this riddle; one could only blame the artist for their poor skills. Mo Wen found it impossible to describe adequately; even if he closed his eyes, he could paint something better than this crude depiction. After hearing Mo Wen's words, some frowned while others nodded in agreement; after all, no one could truly understand what the painting represented, which explained why fewer participants attended each year.
To examine the details of the painting more closely, everyone moved forward for a serious look. Mo Wen decided to join them; perhaps he might discover some hidden detail after all. After viewing the artwork up close, some nodded while others shook their heads—uncertain if they had found something or simply felt that the painting was too “profound” to grasp its meaning.
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