Su Mingyuan remembered a phrase from a textbook he’d read in school.
Talent is often the cause of a talented person’s demise.
He’d never truly understood it, but as he lay dying, the meaning became perfectly clear.
To be a master woodcarver killed by one of his own sculptures toppling from a shelf… yes, that was truly a death by one’s own craft.
Yet, in the moment his last breath escaped him, all Su Mingyuan felt was relief.
He had dedicated his life to carving, reaching an extraordinary level of mastery, but the skill had never brought him happiness.
When his wife fell gravely ill, he had no money for her treatment, and he’d had to watch her pass away. His only son fell in with a bad crowd, growing into a layabout who did nothing but demand money. Stealing valuables from the house to sell was routine for him; getting arrested, a regular occurrence.
Just a few days ago, his son had struck him, screaming curses when his father’s pockets were empty. The blow had made Su Mingyuan feel as if his entire life had been a complete and utter failure.
Perhaps death was a form of release.
Feiyun State, Qingfeng Town.
With a deafening crash, a lightning bolt struck a nearly thousand-year-old tree in the center of town, setting it ablaze. As if by a signal, the torrential downpour that had besieged Qingfeng Town for three days finally came to an end.
It had been years since the town had seen such a relentless storm.
In a forgotten corner of Bailu Square stood an unassuming shop, a faded sign above its door bearing four characters.
Wenxin Painting Workshop.
The storefront was rundown, its location poor. Behind the shop was a small courtyard, where a figure pushed open a window and gazed out at the rain-washed world.
"It finally stopped."
The speaker was a haggard, unkempt man in the prime of his life, looking as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Su Mingyuan could never have imagined that after being killed by his own woodcarving, he would be reborn in this mystical world, inhabiting the body of a man who had just died.
When he first arrived, he was utterly disoriented.
He had read plenty of novels about transmigration in his past life, but while the protagonists in those stories inherited the memories of their new bodies, Su Mingyuan had received nothing at all.
All he knew was that the body’s previous owner had died of a heart attack, likely brought on by a sudden fit of rage.
To make matters worse, a torrential downpour had started the moment he arrived, trapping him inside.
A search of the house had turned up no food. There was some silver, but one couldn’t eat silver, and with the storm raging, there was nowhere to buy anything. Su Mingyuan had been starving for three days straight, fearing he might have the misfortune of dying from starvation immediately after transmigrating.
Thankfully, the rain had ceased. He could finally go out and find something to eat.
His three days indoors had not been entirely fruitless, however. Su Mingyuan had found a great deal of written material left by the body’s previous owner, and through it, he had managed to learn something of this new world.
It was a world where martial arts flourished and cultivators walked the earth. But the method of cultivation here was something that stunned Su Mingyuan.
Martial artists gained enlightenment and advanced through realms by studying paintings.
One martial artist, it was said, viewed the Crimson Tiger Descends the Peak Scroll and comprehended the "Tiger's Roar Might" technique, gaining the strength to move mountains with his bare hands.
Another saw a painting of a Jade Frost Piercing Stars Blade and from it devised the "Starlight Frost Blade Art," which he used to slay alien invaders, earning renown across the land.
In this world, the status of a painter was therefore exceedingly prestigious.
Those with the talent to become painters could perceive the spirit of heaven and earth when they held a brush, cultivating themselves through this spiritual connection. The strength of that spirit determined the quality of their work.
The greatest painters wielded power akin to gods and spirits, capable of steadying the heavens with a single painting or depicting the entire sky with a single stroke. Their might was infinite.
The aptitude required to become a painter was a one-in-a-million gift.
The original Su Mingyuan of this world had shown the potential to grasp that spirit with a brush since he was a child. He had aspired to become a legendary Ink Sovereign and stand at the very pinnacle of this world.
Unfortunately, while he had the ambition, he lacked the true talent to back it up. He possessed a flicker of ability, but it had no substance.
He had painted from childhood into his thirties with little to show for it. The family fortune he’d once possessed had been painted away, and now he scraped by running this small workshop.
Even his only son had left home more than three years ago. From a few letters, Su Mingyuan knew his son, Su Zian, was now cultivating at a sect called Azure Summit Sect.
The sad truth was that no one bought his paintings. They were mediocre, their concepts incomprehensible. Why would anyone pay for such art?
He kept the workshop afloat with the meager stipend his son sent home each month.
Su Mingyuan felt that his predecessor had lived a truly pathetic life.
He had examined the paintings in the workshop himself, and frankly, they were terrible.
The paintings of beasts, for example, barely resembled their subjects. They had form but no soul; the details were crude and lifeless.
This was because painters in this world could not depict things they had not seen. For a painter like Su Mingyuan, who possessed no strength of his own, there was no chance to observe a real beast up close.
It was unlike the great powers, who would capture live beasts for their own painters to study, carefully cultivating their faction’s artistic talent.
As dawn broke, sunlight finally spread across Qingfeng Town. Su Mingyuan grabbed his silver and hurried outside. He was starving.
If he didn’t eat soon, he might very well die a second time.
"Oh, Painter Su, where are you off to in such a hurry?" someone greeted him the moment he stepped onto the street.
Su Mingyuan didn't recognize the man and had no time for pleasantries. He ignored the greeting, his eyes scanning the street for a place to eat.
Seeing himself ignored, the man just smiled awkwardly and went on his way.
Though Su Mingyuan was a rather useless painter, he was still a painter. The title afforded him a certain status, and who knew? He might one day produce a masterpiece and soar to success.
After all, everyone in town knew the story of how Su Mingyuan had once painted a picture that allowed a disciple from an aristocratic family to advance from the Spirit Tempering Realm to the Foundation Establishment Realm.
It was a feat Su Mingyuan had boasted about for years.
He told the story to anyone who would listen.
Another person approached him. "Painter Su, fancy seeing you. Have you eaten?"
Su Mingyuan replied, "Hmm? How did you know my painting helped someone reach the Foundation Establishment Realm?"
Not even the famously long-winded Wan Yue could compare.
He received constant greetings as he walked. Su Mingyuan either ignored them or offered a curt nod, his focus entirely on his rumbling stomach. Finally, after a quarter of an hour, he spotted a street stall.
Breakfast was being served, and a small crowd was already eating. The aroma drifted over, making Su Mingyuan’s stomach ache with hunger.
He plopped down at an empty spot, waving urgently at the stall owner.
"Oh, Painter Su!" The owner, a plain, honest-looking middle-aged man, was surprised to see him.
Painter Su, eating at his stall?
Normally, Su Mingyuan would never lower himself to eat at such a humble place; he frequented the town’s prestigious Yuehai Pavilion. What was different today?
Even the other customers glanced over, curious.
Seeing the owner just standing there, Su Mingyuan urged him on. "Boss, hurry! Anything will do, just get me some food quickly."
"Oh, oh, right!" The stall owner snapped out of his daze and quickly brought over a bowl of breakfast.
It was nothing more than congee with a few side dishes and a piece of fried bread.
Su Mingyuan devoured it ravenously. After three days of starvation, this simple meal tasted like the finest feast he’d had in two lifetimes.
Just as he was wolfing down his food, a voice called out from nearby. "Painter Su, there you are! Saves me a trip to your workshop. I have a letter for you."
Su Mingyuan looked up to see a man in a purple robe approaching, a large box strapped to his back. The man rummaged through the box for a moment before pulling out a letter and handing it to him.
With his mouth still full of fried bread, Su Mingyuan took the letter, ignoring the grease on his fingers. He glanced at the envelope and saw the name written there: Su Zian.
A letter from his son?