"This is surprising," Li San said.
Yang took a calming breath. His heart still racing from the sudden jolt awake.
Li San stood in the doorway. Holding a bowl of porridge. Looking at Yang with mild curiosity.
"Normally you're awake before I come back right at dawn," Li San continued.
Yang sat up fully. Rubbing his face. "Slept late."
"How was your shift?" Yang asked. Trying to sound normal.
"As usual," Li San said. He moved into the room. Closed the door behind him. Continued eating the porridge he'd brought.
He passed a second bowl to Yang. "Eat quickly. It's still hot."
Yang nodded toward the meat bun on Li San's bed. "I brought that for you. It's cold now but should still be tasty."
Li San's eyes lit up. He excitedly unwrapped the bun and quickly took a bite. "Damn. If it's so tasty cold, it must have been heavenly piping hot."
Li San moaned appreciatively around the mouthful.
"It was," Yang replied. Managing a small smile.
Then Li San's eyes shifted to the painting on the center table.
"New decor?" Li San said. His tone joking. "Are we decorating the place now? You know this is an inn, right? If you want to decorate our place, let's rent an actual room instead."
Yang just glared at him. Until they both chuckled.
Li San took a closer look at the painting. Yang's heart almost stopped. He might be ensnared, but he didn't want Li San harmed. Trapped like him.
But before Yang could say anything, Li San casually picked up the painting. Looked at it. Placed it back down without ceremony.
Yang was shocked at the casual disregard. Even if the painting hadn't ensnared Li San like it had Yang, at least Li San should be a bit shocked at seeing such an untraditional painting in this world.
"Don't you find anything unique about the painting?" Yang asked carefully.
Li San looked at Yang. Then looked at the painting again. More carefully this time. After studying it for a long moment, he turned to Yang. Confused. "I don't know what you mean. What's so special about it?"
Yang hesitated. "It's not the usual style painted by painters here. It's painted differently than is common. People don't use such strokes and these kinds of paints."
Li San's eyebrows rose. Surprised. "You know so much about painting? How? I thought you were also from a village."
Yang tensed. "I was born and raised in a village."
He went quiet. Thinking what to say.
"Don't," Li San interrupted.
"What?"
"Don't think what to say to me. If you don't want to tell me, don't."
"Li San," Yang said. His throat tight. "I trust you more than anyone."
"I know," Li San said gently. "But whatever it is, you can't speak about it."
Yang looked at his friend. "I understand."
"You can say when you're ready," Li San continued. "But don't lie to me."
"I wasn't going to," Yang said quietly. "But it's difficult to explain to anyone."
Li San smiled in understanding. No judgment. Just acceptance.
Yang understood then. The painting hadn't affected Li San in any unnatural way. Thankfully.
But also, Li San was just a simple village boy. He'd never left his village before accompanying Yang here. How could he know what was and wasn't a common style of painting? To Li San, all painting styles would seem equally foreign.
Yang had noticed Li San's interests lay toward martial prowess. Even without finding an acceptable way to become martial artists, Li San was still interested in learning sword fighting from the warehouse guards.
Yang also knew that if it weren't for Yang being so against signing a contract with a martial hall, Li San would have already signed himself up. Ready to be cannon fodder in his youthful passion.
Despite being biologically a year older than Yang, Li San was decades younger in mental age. So they acted with Yang as the older brother. Li San understood this dynamic. He was aware enough to know Yang was more thoughtful. That he himself was prone to rash decisions. So he followed Yang's lead often.
Both finished their porridge in comfortable silence.
Yang stood and closed the curtains. "Rest. You must be tired."
Li San yawned. Already moving toward his bed. "Where are you going?"
"Just need to take care of something," Yang said vaguely.
Li San nodded. Too tired to press. Already lying down.
Yang left the room. Went downstairs. The sun was high despite the early hour. Everything was lit. Bright.
Yang had decided to skip work today. No one would say anything since he was paid daily wages. If he was absent, he simply didn't get paid. That was all.
He moved toward the market where he'd met Cheng Mo. The painter's stall.
But when Yang arrived at the location, he didn't see Cheng Mo's stall. The space was empty.
Yang decided to wait. Sat in a corner. Watching vendors set up their stalls around him.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher. The market filled with people. Merchants calling their wares. Customers haggling.
Yang watched the space where Cheng Mo's stall should be.
Someone else was setting up there. A different merchant. Selling fabric instead of paintings.
Yang immediately stood. Crossed to the new merchant. Normally all merchants held a single location. Changing spaces meant losing customers who knew where to find you. No one moved willingly.
"Hello," Yang said. Trying to keep his voice calm. "Can you tell me where the painting seller is?"
The merchant looked at him. A bit shocked at Yang's intensity. "I recently bought this location for my own stall. The painter gave up his place. Wasn't making any money."
Yang's chest tightened. "Do you know where he could be found?"
"No," the merchant said. Clearly too busy with setting up his stall to care about Yang's problem.
Yang stepped back. Looking around the market. Searching for any sign of Cheng Mo among the crowd.
Nothing.
He decided to walk around. See if his instincts would urge him toward the painter again.
Yang moved through the streets. Past familiar shops and stalls. Through areas he'd walked dozens of times in the past months.
Nothing. No pull. No guidance.
He expanded his search. Moving into neighborhoods he'd only passed through once or twice. Less familiar territory.
Still nothing.
Hours passed. The sun reached its peak. Then began its descent.
Yang's frustration grew. Where was Cheng Mo? Had he left Sun City entirely? Or just moved to a different part?
Why did Yang care so much? The painting was already his. He had what he'd been drawn to. What did it matter where the painter went?
But Yang knew it mattered. The painter was important somehow. Connected to whatever the painting meant. Whatever it was doing to Yang.
He needed answers.
Yang walked until his legs ached despite his enhanced endurance. Until the sun began setting and the market vendors started packing up.
No sign of Cheng Mo anywhere.
Yang returned to Grey Thorn Inn as darkness fell. Frustrated and exhausted. No closer to understanding what was happening.
He climbed the stairs to his room. Opened the door quietly in case Li San was still sleeping.
Li San was awake. Sitting on his bed. Looking at the painting with a thoughtful expression.
"Any luck?" Li San asked without looking away from the painting.
Yang blinked. "How did you know I was looking for something?"
"You skipped work. You never skip work." Li San finally turned to look at Yang. "And you've been staring at that painting since you brought it home. Whatever it is, it's important to you."
Yang sat heavily on his bed. "I was looking for the painter who sold it to me."
"Did you find him?"
"No. He gave up his stall location. No one knows where he went."
Li San nodded slowly. "That's strange. For a painter to just disappear after selling you something."
"Everything about this is strange," Yang admitted. Looking at the painting. The endless staircase. The clouds. The mystery.
"Do you regret buying it?" Li San asked.
Yang opened his mouth to say yes. That he should have walked away. Should have ignored the pull of his instincts.
But the word wouldn't come.
"No," Yang said instead. Honest despite himself. "I don't regret it."
Li San smiled slightly. "Then stop worrying. Whatever it means, you'll figure it out eventually."
Yang wanted to believe that. Wanted Li San's simple faith in him to be enough.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something important had just slipped through his fingers. That Cheng Mo held answers Yang desperately needed.
And now the painter was gone.
Disappeared like mist in morning sun.
Leaving Yang with only a painting and more questions than before.