“So you’re saying you took down a demon yesterday, and that’s why the road looks like cracked ribs under a storm?” Xi stared at the caved‑in street, a hush like fog in her voice. She’d pried the story from Ouyang, like drawing water from a deep well.

Frustration pooled first, then words. Ouyang couldn’t get anything out of Xi about what happened to her. He asked and asked, like pebbles thrown into a dry riverbed, and she gave him nothing.

He squinted as Xian chased a butterfly down the lane, wings fluttering like petals. Then his gaze cut back, sharp as a knife on whetstone. “Who are you, really?” He’d noticed it—Xi’s eyes used to be red like embers; now they were violet, like winter violets after snow.

Unease rose like mist. How many spirits had worn this girl like a borrowed cloak? He knew about Lian. But this Xi—was she another presence sharing the same body, stepping in under certain moons, or something else entirely?

“You… really hurt my feelings.” The ache came first, then the stare. Xi looked at him, deep as a lake at dusk, her smile folding away like a fan.

“Looks like there’s only one way left.” Resolve clicked into place like a latch. Ouyang pulled a sketchboard from his storage space, grin crooked as a crescent. Then his pen went swish‑swish, strokes whipping like reeds in wind.

Xi couldn’t read his intent; doubt drifted like smoke. No matter how she turned it, she had no idea what he meant to do.

After a while, his pen stopped like rain easing off a roof. He handed her the drawing, his expression sly as a fox in tall grass. She glanced—her face darkened like a cloudbank, and a blush blossomed like peach petals.

“Ouyang! Are you looking for death!” Her fury flared first, then flame. Whoosh—a bloom of fire roared from her palm, and the paper curled to ash like dry leaves.

Ouyang’s eyes lit like lanterns. He patted her shoulder, light as a sparrow’s hop. “Ha. That’s the exact reaction. Now I’m sure—it’s really you. No puppet strings.”

The chaos in her chest tangled like vines; then her hand moved. She didn’t punch. Two fingers pinched his cheek hard, a crab’s claw on soft sand. “That still doesn’t mean you can draw filth whenever you want.”

“Hmph. Do it again, and you’re done for.” Her threat landed like a thunderclap beyond the hills.

Ouyang watched the blush still riding her face like sunset on eaves, and relief settled like warm tea. She was the same Xi. She looked older, more tempered, but this response was her signature, hard for anyone to forge.

Her shout startled Xian, who’d been butterfly‑hunting like a little deer in a meadow. She trotted back. “Sister, what happened? Did big brother bully you?” Her worry trembled like a leaf in wind.

“Me, bully her? Come on—look.” Ouyang pointed at the red marks on his face, livid as plum blossoms. He thought of how she once would’ve called red lightning down without blinking; now it was fists or pinches—still thunder, different rain.

Xian checked the marks, then tugged him down with hands light as silk. He didn’t catch on before a soft, slightly damp touch brushed his cheek—dragonfly‑light, here and gone. “Heehee, big brother, now it won’t hurt.” She pecked him and, flushing like a dawn sky, scampered ahead on quick feet.

By the time Ouyang blinked, Xi’s gaze had turned to blades. Her violet eyes held naked killing intent, cold as frost over a deep well. “Degenerate. You won’t even spare a child.”

“How’s that my fault? If you hadn’t pinched me, none of that would’ve happened.” His protest drifted like a tossed reed.

“I don’t care. It’s your fault anyway.” Her judgment fell like a gavel on stone.

Ouyang chose peace, like laying a sword back in its sheath. He ran after Xian, footsteps tapping like rain.

“Stop!” Xi’s voice chased him, hot as lava under rock.

They reached a poor village, roofs sagging like tired backs. Xi pulled Xian along to find an elder, questions about demons ready like arrows on a string. Ouyang stood aside, bored as a cat in noon heat, and he wandered.

His feet took him to a hot spring, steam lifting like white cranes. From the water came girl’s voices, bright as bells. Behind a rock, he spotted a white‑haired old man peeking, eyes glinting like a fox at hen‑dawn.

“Old fox. You’ve got an eye for angles.” Ouyang’s whisper curled like smoke. “Best vantage, right there—clear as a winter sky.”

The old man snapped around, muscles coiled like a hare at the snare. Hands clamped the rock, feet ready to bolt, all in one smooth wave. That fluent motion told Ouyang he was an old hand, seasoned like driftwood.

“Yo, kid. You interested too?” The old man’s squint was a cat’s slitted gaze.

“Interested? Nah. I’m gathering reference for great art.” Ouyang’s grin flashed like a knife. He drew out the board and pen again, the tools bright as fish scales.

“Art?” The old man frowned, puzzled as a turtle in a tree, but he kept quiet and watched. Lines flowed—first legs appeared like reeds by a pond, then a lower half, then an upper form, each shape surfacing like islands through mist.

The old man’s eyes lit like twin lamps. He’d peeked for decades, but he’d never trapped those “art” moments on paper like butterflies in a jar.

“These are scenes of great art,” Ouyang said, gaze lifting like a man reading stars. “We can’t lock them in our skulls like dusty scrolls. We draw them so all may behold—that’s our mission.”

Surprise rippled through the old man like wind over wheat, yet doubt clung like burrs. Ouyang shook his head and kept sketching. “Many can copy what they see, like mirrors. Great art cuts deeper. Watch—like this. Would you have thought of it?”

The old man’s pupils tightened like knots. New tendrils wormed into the composition, writhing like deep‑sea kelp. It broke his frame of reference, yet his “appreciation” didn’t falter, bright as a moth to flame.

“Kid, you’ve got talent. Feels like I’ve wasted years like water on sand.”

“Wasted?” Ouyang snorted, a spark in dry grass. “Look—dogs can fit too.” He added a dog into the scene, a jolt like thunder on clear day. The old man’s worldview cracked like thin ice. He could only think, People and animals—how could the kid even go there?

Ouyang’s pen raced, a swallow skimming the river. The picture grew more… improper, shadows and suggestion like storm clouds thickening. The old man’s breath grew heavy, a bellows feeding a forge. A door to a new world swung open like a gate in spring.

“Old sir, imagine taking these to market,” Ouyang said, tearing the sheet free with a rip like silk. He handed it over. “Great art in your hands. How about stepping in—becoming a great artist yourself?”

Artist. A great artist. The phrase struck like a gong.

“Teach me, kid. Fast.” The old man’s excitement leaped like fire to dry pine. “I’ve got contacts. Break the old rules, push these into the markets, and we’ll spark a new era, a new tide.”

His voice rose too high, like birds scattering from reeds.

“What was that?”

“Sounds like Kula, that dirty old goat!”

“Not ‘sounds like.’ That’s definitely Kula!”

Voices in the spring boiled like a pot. Sensing the net tighten, Old Kula grabbed Ouyang, and they bolted like rabbits. He slid a stone aside behind a tree, revealing a hole like a fox den. They dived in, and Kula plugged the entrance, the dark sealing around them like cool earth.

For peeking, he’d dug a tunnel? Ouyang had no words; his awe stacked like stones for Kula’s devotion to “art.”

“Kid, the exit’s ahead.” Kula shoved a wooden hatch, and sunlight spilled in like gold dust.

“The other exit’s hooked up to my house. Convenient, eh?” His pride swelled like a rooster’s crest. For the first time, Ouyang felt he’d lost a round, a small flag planted on his heart.

“Kado, get out here! Big business! Era‑shaping business!” Kula shouted toward a small wooden house, voice booming like a drum. The tunnel opened just outside; a few steps, and they were in. “Kado’s my son. He moves goods, all kinds. If we mass‑produce these, the coins will roll like a river—no, no! Great art can’t be weighed by such vulgar metal. These are epoch‑makers, ready to crack this stiff old world.”

Kula’s fervor flamed like a zealot’s torch. Ouyang swallowed, hope fizzing like spring water. At last, someone with eyes. His sketchbooks might finally ride the winds across the continent.

“Old sir, you’re still thinking too small.” His vision surged like a tide. “Don’t stop at single images. Do multiple pages. Add words. Build a complete story. Picture this: a princess from a fallen kingdom gets found by seven dwarfs, then lives a shameless, ever‑so‑lively life with them. A plot that vivid? No one’s seen it.”

Kula’s gaze burned like coals. He could see it; nine times out of ten, this future would arrive.

Inside the house, the two of them hunched over not‑for‑children pages, conferring like scholars over bamboo slips, faces grave as a temple hall.

“This area needs to go deeper—use shadow.” Kula stroked his white beard, snow on bark, pointing at the page. “Hit them with a visual shock.”

Ouyang’s eyes shifted, respect settling like dew. In a short span, the old fox had given real, workable notes. Truly a man of the same path.