Chapter 107: Who Goes First?

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By all accounts, Shen Yu had lived for a very long time—indeed, he had already lived for many years three thousand years ago. When it came to the Daoist arts or swordsmanship, Shen Yu was confident he was second to none in the world. In combat, he harbored no fear or hesitation, for he had never once been defeated.

Yet at this moment, Shen Yu suddenly realized there were still many things he was not skilled at. He once mocked Yu Wenwen as a sword fanatic, but in truth, his former self was no different. Yang Pan’er did not understand these things, or perhaps she simply had not thought about them; she silently stared wide-eyed at Shen Yu. In her eyes, he was omnipotent, so this innocent and naive gaze carried an almost piercing force.

Just as Shen Yu was at a loss for how to respond, suddenly, from the distant round platform came a burst of exclamations. A giant scroll shimmering with a glaze-like radiance slowly unfurled, dreamlike and surreal.

There were merchants bargaining, hurried passersby, children crying after being lost, and noble scions flaunting themselves through the market. Amidst this, the clamor of the bustling market could faintly be heard. The scroll on the high platform seemed to come to life in an instant; figures appeared one after another, vivid and lifelike.

Far off, birds flew in flocks across the vast rivers and mountains, eventually settling on the lake’s surface to rest. The gathered crowd widened their eyes, entranced as they gazed at the man atop the platform and the magical brush in his hand.

“One of the city’s four great families, the eldest son of the Eastern family, Dongfang Duan, is most skilled in calligraphy and painting, following the Dao through these arts,” Zhao Ji explained.

Yang Pan’er unconsciously stood on tiptoe, admiring the lifelike scroll. Such skill, even cultivators who had achieved mastery would instinctively appreciate the profound artistic conception within.

Yet it seemed there was someone else surprised by this. Yang Pan’er noticed Shen Yu’s expression—his brows were uncreased, as if pondering something.

She asked, puzzled, “Is this painting not good?”

Shen Yu, thoughtful, replied after a pause, “Barely passable.”

Curious, Yang Pan’er pressed, “Are you better at painting than this?”

Shen Yu shook his head and explained, “I don’t know how to paint, but I’ve seen many examples before, so I understand a bit.”

“Then can you paint?”

“No.”

Pouting, Yang Pan’er wagged her finger in a lecturing manner, sighing, “You’re all talk and no skill, Shen Yu. That won’t do.”

Shen Yu smiled and then walked toward the scroll.

Blinking, Yang Pan’er hurried after him. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll choose this one,” he said.

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“But you just said you don’t know how to paint?”

“I can learn.”

“Like how you learned the formation arrays a few days ago?”

“Yes.”

.....

Dongfang Duan of the Eastern family in Qianliu City was a graceful young man, rosy-lipped and white-toothed, with starry brows and sharp eyes that easily won favor at first sight. Yet the undeniable arrogance beneath his brows caused many to keep their distance.

Most participants in the painting contest quietly stood aside, their faces lacking any sign of disappointment. It was expected that Dongfang Duan would claim first place.

Their goal was to reach the top three, as the city’s four great families would provide rare magical treasures and elixirs for the spring trial’s top three—far more valuable to unaffiliated wanderers than mere fame.

As Dongfang Duan’s brush strokes still danced upon the scroll, applause erupted around him.

Subsequently, a flawlessly exquisite poem was inscribed onto the painting.

The calligraphy and painting contest was always a battleground of myriad schools; the strongest artist naturally had expert judges.

During Dongfang Duan’s performance, the crowd remained silent—not only to admire but also as a sign of respect. But later, the audience’s demeanor changed.

Every stroke seemed like a living being, every smile and frown rendered with exquisite detail.

Soon, only the sound of Dongfang Duan’s brush remained atop the round platform. Among the contestants, two other skilled painters emerged: one a tattered scholar with upright features and righteous bearing; the other a lady from a noble family, her delicate hands producing a stunning masterpiece.

These two were renowned calligraphy and painting masters throughout Qianliu City and the entire Linshan Kingdom.

Three men responsible for judging quietly conversed, their faces showing satisfaction. Among them, the eldest, a man past his destined years, stroked his beard and nodded.

Witnessing this, the crowd felt the outcome was decided.

For the oldest and most respected judge among them to express approval was a remarkable commendation.

This unassuming man was Dongfang Daozi, Dongfang Duan’s master and once the prized disciple of the painting institute at Zhongzhou Academy.

“As I expected, the overall result is settled.”

“Though knowing this beforehand, I still feel a bit reluctant.”

“Let us go see the styles of the other three families’ disciples.”

The crowd murmured.

Amidst this idle chatter, Shen Yu steadily made his way onto the platform for the painting contest. Scanning around, he saw a sheet of pristine paper laid on an isolated stone table to the left.

He seated himself cross-legged on a yellow cushion before the table, and a gentle wisp of tea smoke rose nearby.

The misty smoke appeared ethereal but was actually a special barrier, isolating this space so it would not disturb other contests on the sky platform.

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Perhaps because the painting contest was nearing its end, many noticed the mysterious man.

They observed his brush-holding posture—it was that of a complete novice, devoid of any grace or technique.

Onlookers shook their heads slightly; it was only natural, and no one maintained further interest.

Shen Yu ignored their gazes. Raising his right hand with the brush, he closed his eyes slightly, as if recalling something.

He had told Yang Pan’er he had seen many painters, actually only once, but that single time was among the greatest painting skills in the world.

Yes, not the most beautiful, nor the most realistic, but the strongest.

With a flick of his brush tip, he made a stroke in midair.

The pure white paper floated up as if suspended by magic.

Suddenly, a dragon’s roar thundered through heaven and earth, like a bolt from the blue.

“Roar!”

A colossal golden dragon’s head emerged from the dark clouds above, fierce and terrifying. Its roar echoed across the land, sending ripples of sound outward.

Countless onlookers on the round platform shuddered instinctively, lifting their heads in awe toward the golden dragon.

The dragon circled and soared. After the first roar, a drizzle began to fall. With the second roar, the wind rose fiercely, rain and storm raging together.

Many forgot to perform rain avoidance techniques, pale-faced, staring at the true dragon in the sky, overwhelmed with fear.

Though he followed the Dao through painting, Shen Yu’s work lacked the vivid lifelikeness of Dongfang Duan’s, the gentleness of the noble lady’s, or the bold spirit of the scholar’s.

Instead, it bore an unparalleled domineering will; everyone present nearly knelt, compelled to worship the celestial dragon.

The tattered scholar trembled, blood drained from his face before the golden dragon.

Dongfang Duan bit his lip hard, sweating profusely, forcing himself to remain upright rather than collapsing to his knees.

As for the others, many had already fallen prostrate to the ground.

Dongfang Daozi, seated at the platform’s center as the highest authority in painting, looked stunned and bewildered.

To him, this man’s technique was crude, lacking skill or depth—only a mysterious intent beyond ordinary comprehension.

But this intent, he had once glimpsed by chance on the third floor of the academy.

In an instant, the ninefold true dragon appears, cleansing all mortal steeds of eternity.

The true dragon manifests, the mortal steeds vanish.

This was the intent the man displayed—unrelated to technique or subject matter.

He was already near the Dao.