The painter's eyes lit up at Yang's genuine interest. "You really want to see more?"
"Yes," Yang said. Meaning it.
The painter introduced him self as Cheng Mo and moved through his stall with renewed energy. Pulling out paintings. Unwrapping them carefully. Each piece revealed with pride.
A marketplace scene. Every face distinct. Individual. You could almost hear the merchants calling their wares.
A forest clearing. Light filtering through leaves in shafts you could trace with your finger. Each leaf individually rendered.
A young child sleeping. The peaceful expression so real Yang expected the chest to rise and fall with breath.
Cheng Mo described each piece. The subject. The inspiration. How long it took. What techniques he'd used.
Yang listened. But part of his attention wandered elsewhere.
Was this man also a transmigrator?
Yang had never thought himself unique. The universe was infinite. If he could be reborn in a wuxia world with his previous life's memories, what stopped the same thing from happening to others?
Western style painting in a Chinese-influenced world. The man's techniques. His perspectives. It all suggested knowledge from elsewhere.
But Yang couldn't be certain. And asking directly would be dangerous.
He refocused on the paintings instead. Concentrating on what was in front of him.
Cheng Mo was truly talented. Each piece was so lifelike that if Yang weren't close enough to see the frame and feel the canvas, he would have thought it was a real person or place.
Incredibly detailed. The brush strokes so minute you could barely see them.
Yang almost touched one painting before thinking better of it. The surface looked wet. Fresh. Like you could smudge the paint despite it being clearly dry.
It was almost like a photograph instead of a painting.
Yang surprised himself with how much he knew about painting. Terms came to his lips. Observations about technique and composition. Knowledge from his previous life surfacing without conscious effort.
Cheng Mo grew excited at meeting someone genuinely interested. He began eagerly showing and discussing each piece. Pulling Yang deeper into conversation.
Yang himself got so consumed in the discussion that he forgot his reservations. Forgot his curiosity about why his inner instincts had urged him here.
That realization, when it finally came, was alarming.
How absurd. He'd forgotten everything while discussing paintings with a stranger. Let his guard down completely. Lost himself in art appreciation while ignoring the strangeness of the situation.
Yang became aware of himself again. Of where he was and how much time had passed.
The man noticed Yang's attention returning. Introducing himself properly. "I'm Cheng Mo. Thank you for indulging an old painter's passion."
"Thank you for showing me your work," Yang said. Bowing slightly. "I apologize for taking so much of your time."
But even as he spoke, Yang's eyes kept drifting back to one painting.
A staircase built into a mountain. The steps rising up and up. Disappearing into clouds and mist. The mountain was shrouded but the painting was so realistic the mist seemed to move. The clouds the stairs led into shifted if you watched long enough.
The stairs had no visible end. They kept going on and on until they disappeared into nothingness.
The painting resonated with Yang. Deep in his chest. In a place he couldn't name.
Cheng Mo noticed Yang's concentration. His eyes grew sharper. Assessing. "Would you like to buy it?"
Yang became embarrassed. Tearing his gaze away with effort. "I'm just a laborer. I can't afford something like that."
But his eyes drifted back immediately. Unable to help themselves.
Cheng Mo smiled. Seeing Yang unable to keep his eyes away. "How much do you think it's worth?"
Yang swallowed. "It must be hundreds of gold coins. Maybe even thousands. I could never afford something like that. Never."
"Never?" Cheng Mo chuckled. The sound amused. "How much do you have on you right now?"
Yang blinked. Confused. "What?"
"How much money do you have? I'll take that as payment."
"I only have two bronze coins," Yang said. Bewildered. "That's too little. Far too little for something like this."
Cheng Mo chuckled again. "Fine. You're fated with it. Take it for two bronze."
Yang wanted to refuse. Opened his mouth to protest and even refused him. But he could hear how false his words sounded even to his own ears. His body was already reaching for his coin pouch.
He pulled out the two bronze coins. The last of his daily wages. Dropped them into Cheng Mo's outstretched hand.
"Thank you," Yang said. His voice thick. "Thank you so much."
Cheng Mo carefully wrapped the painting. Handed it to Yang with both hands. A gesture of respect.
"Are you sure?" Yang asked. One last attempt at sanity. "Giving me this painting for so little?"
Cheng Mo looked at him deeply. His eyes seemed to see through Yang. "Are you sure taking this painting?"
The question felt profound. Like it carried weight beyond the words. Yang felt compelled to answer. The truth forcing itself out.
"Yes," Yang blurted. Strong. Certain. Then immediately became embarrassed at his own vehemence.
Cheng Mo just laughed. A sound of genuine delight. "Then go. It's yours."
Yang clutched the wrapped painting. Bowed deeply. Turned to leave.
With each step away from the stall, the painting grew heavier. Heavier than any burden Yang had ever carried. Even after becoming stronger with his enhanced strength.
The weight pressed down on his shoulders. Into his chest. Not physical but rather something else entirely.
Yang felt eyes on his back. He looked over his shoulder.
Cheng Mo was still watching him. His expression unreadable in the lantern light.
Yang quickened his steps. Heart pounding. Moving through the streets toward Grey Thorn Inn.
He reached the inn. Climbed the stairs. Entered his room and quickly closed the door behind him.
Yang sat down on his bed. The wrapped painting in his hands. He carefully removed the cloth.
The staircase appeared. Rising into clouds. Disappearing into mystery.
Yang stared at it.
He knew the painting wasn't normal. Knew the painter wasn't normal. Knew he should put it down. Throw it away. Get rid of it before whatever strangeness it carried affected him further.
But even as his mind thought these things, his body couldn't follow through.
His hands held the painting gently. Reverently.
What have you gotten me into? Yang thought at his inner instincts. But they remained quiet. Offering no guidance. No warning. Just that same pull of rightness.
Yang finally stood and placed the painting on the small center table between his and Li San's beds. He positioned it standing up. Leaning against the wall. Couldn't bear to lay it flat where it couldn't be seen.
He quickly wiped his face and body using the basin of water he and Li San had bought once they'd realized they'd be staying in Sun City long enough to need such things.
Yang placed the cold meat bun on Li San's bed. His friend would be hungry when he returned from his shift.
Then Yang lay down on his own bed. But he positioned himself with his head near the foot. So he could keep looking at the painting as he lay down.
Yang knew he should be panicking. Something was seriously wrong with him. With this situation. But he couldn't bear to take his eyes off the painting.
The staircase. The mist. The endless climb into clouds.
Where did it lead? What was at the top? Why did it call to him so strongly?
Yang studied every detail. Each individual step carved into the mountain. The way the stone changed texture higher up. The mist that seemed to breathe. Move. The clouds that held secrets.
He didn't know when he fell asleep. One moment he was tracing the stairs with his eyes. Counting steps. Imagining the climb.
The next moment darkness took him.
Yang jolted awake.
A noise. Loud. Close.
His eyes snapped open. Heart racing. Hand reaching for the dagger at his waist.