🧶🐱🧶
Better late than never... dedicated to DaNa020521, who laughs like it's their superpower, somehow survives my chaotic scribbles, and feels things a little more deeply than most. Thank you🪄
🧶🐱🧶
Jerry's vision swam. Am I... dying? No, not l...
Jerry, however, only adjusted his veil, sat cross-legged at a table, and let his fingers trail over the brushes. This isn't calligraphy... this is art. My turf.
The officiant struck a gong. "You have three incense sticks' time. Begin!"
Around him, competitors dipped into quick strokes of plum blossoms, peach orchards, and spring fields. Jerry, though, leaned back, fan tapping against his shoulder, thinking. His modern-trained eyes scanned the blank scroll, searching not just for beauty, but for meaning.
Xu Ming whispered to himself, "He's wasting time again..."
Jerry sat cross-legged, rolling his shoulders once, then dipped the brush. His strokes at first seemed ordinary, but soon his movements steadied, sure and unhurried. A cliff rose on the paper, waterfalls tumbling in silver streaks, mountains fading into layers of mist. Then came the lone pavilion, and finally, a figure in white gazing at the crescent moon.
Xu Ming's smirk froze. His laughter died somewhere in his throat. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. This... this wasn't the Yichen he knew.
Jerry's brush lingered one last time, adding a trail of falling stars. Beside the painting, he wrote the theme with graceful calligraphy that startled even himself- simple characters, elegant and sorrowful: Silent Farewell.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
(Note: Artists out there I know it's not really possible to paint something like this in three hours. So please consider this as part of fiction and forgive my ignorance.)
The tavern hushed. People whispered, awed by the quiet ache woven into the image.
Up on the second floor, Yuanzhou stood behind the railings, gaze fixed on the painting below. His chest tightened, unbidden memories stirring.
When they were children, Yichen had never sat through a single lesson-he'd sneak out, dodge the tutors, hide from endless lectures. A prince who scorned the brush and scroll. Yet now, here he was, painting a scene that felt heavier than a thousand written words.
Yuanzhou's hand tightened on the railing. Something was wrong. This was not the brother he remembered, nor the frivolous young master others saw. This was... something else.
Below, Jerry exhaled, setting the brush down with a small, wry smile.
When the three incense sticks had burned down, the judges walked among the finished scrolls. Their gazes lingered longest on Jerry's work-whispers rose, curious eyes darted toward the veiled young master whose hand had painted it. Finally, the chief judge cleared his throat and announced the winner.
"The first prize," he declared, "goes to this piece-Silent Farewell."
The tavern broke into murmurs, then applause. Jerry rose, folding his fan behind his back as he walked forward, the brim of his hat veiling most of his expression.
