The third round was painting, with Chen Suhe of the Shao Xian Chen Clan setting up the challenge.
In the first two rounds, Western Chu had drawn one and lost one.
Even if Western Chu won the third round, this clash could only end in a draw. They had launched a sneak attack and tried to crush their opponents with sheer force, only to fight to a standstill. Even if a great Confucian scholar came, he would never be able to argue his way out of that.
However, if Western Chu drew or lost the third round, then by the rule of best two out of three...
The great Confucian scholars on Northern Qi's side were already itching to move, ready to begin their debate on the classics.
The pressure now fell on Chen Suhe.
The old gentleman's features were refined and lean. His frost-white hair was loosely gathered with a green bamboo hairpin, several stray strands draping over his shoulders. He wore a plain, wide white robe, its hem stained with ink marks left unwashed for years, like the blank spaces in an impressionistic painting—free and unrestrained, with an added hint of wild abandon.
This man looked as though he had stepped straight out of a painting. One glance was enough to tell he was a master of the art.
By comparison, Jiang Yingjun's face was far too youthful. Her Primordial Spirit was weary and weak, her brows faintly furrowed. Her pale complexion carried the sickly look of exhaustion, making her seem delicate and frail, as though she lacked the strength to fight before the battle had even begun.
"Little Friend Jiang, what do you excel at painting?"
Chen Suhe stroked his beard and smiled. His voice was gentle and courteous, as though he were asking an old friend.