Painting required earnest concentration.
Bai Yujun could not understand the wild-school or mad-demon sort of painters. Perhaps this dragon's artistic realm was not profound enough.
For instance, those who raved and howled madly while splashing ink at will—their painting technique must have belonged to the mysteries of the dark. They relied on some unseen so-called artistic conception to make every drop of ink land in precisely the right place. Of course, if you could not understand it, that was simply because your realm was too low.
The endless drizzle brought cold, damp air.
Thunder rumbled.
Beyond the city lay the ancient town of Yaotian.
The Qingshi Road on both sides of the waterways had been worn smooth, while misty rain soaked the mottled old white walls.
The little town had shed all its former splendor, leaving behind only tranquility. The drooping willows looked even more tenderly green amid the wind and rain. At a doorway, a tabby cat tucked its paws beneath itself and squinted.
In one dilapidated, weathered old courtyard, water dripped from the eaves. Before the window, a young scholar lay asleep on his desk. The room was bare, its walls stripped clean by poverty. Aside from this weed-choked residence, only snakes, insects, rats, and ants kept him company.
The scholar's surname was Zhang, his given name Yao. His family had fallen into decline.
He loved ink painting.
Yet one saying applied everywhere.
When failures spoke reason, it was no different from farting; when successful people farted, it became sound reasoning. Before achieving success, no matter how fine one's painting skills were, nobody cared. At the Jinshan Mountain painters' competition, Zhang Yao had been too impoverished even to receive a chance to display his work. Thus, it had made perfect sense when a certain Bai had changed out