As the next few days go by, I spend my time painting. Experimenting with the limits of what I can do.

  As long as it is realistic enough, I can enter any painting. Stepping within the confines of its ink.

  It doesn’t have to be one that I painted, and It doesn’t matter what materials are used. If something is painted on a rock, I can still enter it.

  To do so is dangerous however. Paintings are fragile. Merely paper and ink. Were one destroyed while I was within it, I would simply cease to be.

  Pcing two pictures beside each other with the edges touching constitutes one image. I can freely travel between both as long as an external force doesn’t move them apart.

  Within the world of ink I can continue to draw in the “air” around me to create new things that function as they might in reality with a few notable exceptions.

  If I paint something living it has to be from outside the drawing to work. Were I to paint a live rabbit within the drawing, it would refuse to be more than a statue of flesh. Unthinking and unmoving.

  Painted food is edible, but may as well not be as it simply tastes like paint.

  And interestingly enough. I can’t draw fire. It simply doesn’t work. If I try to, the ink just sits in the air and fades until it’s gone again.

  I set down my brushes, satisfied with my work. The Daoists will be arriving in only minutes, and I intend to hear their meeting even if I am not allowed to be seen by them.

  They’ll be meeting in Hàorán’s office, and as long as I’m careful I should be able to listen through the wall. The office is right next to my room, and the walls are thin.

  If anything, I’ll just need to be quiet. The Daoists should have much greater senses than average people and being detected before it’s time wouldn’t be good.

  My ear catches the distant sound of multiple footfalls.

  A grim smile spreads across my face. They’re here.

  Time to risk my luck.

  I press my ear against the wall as muffled voices come through.

  “So Hàorán, I see you’ve been doing well for yourself. You’re stronger than st we met”

  “I Had a lot of fuel this time. A chance encounter with a wandering caravan. Nobody that would be missed”

  “Ha, and to think people still see you as a virtuous man”

  Fuel? Nobody that would be missed?! My situation looks more and more dire the longer I listen. This man is guilty of far more than I had originally guessed.

  “So, do you have what we asked for? Keep in mind if you can’t provide it, then we’ll stop providing that fuel of yours”

  “Yes yes. There’s no need to be impatient. I wouldn’t go back on my word. I need those bodies after all”

  A muffled squeak escapes my lips before I cover them quickly.

  “...Did you hear that?”

  “...”

  “Most likely nothing. I’ve given all the servants time off while you’re here. The domain is empty besides us”

  “Ah… enough of this chatter. Just hand over the nascent pearl already”

  “Calm yourself”

  The shuffling of fabric and the click of an opening tch followed by an admiring breath.

  “It’s more beautiful than I had thought. I see your skills haven’t dulled despite your age”

  “Far from it. You should know me better than that”

  “Indeed. Your skills are finer than they have ever been. We’ll be sure to provide the resources you need to reach the next stage. Consider your end of the deal fulfilled”

  “Naturally. I’ve never once lied to you”

  “Mm… let’s hope it remains as such”

  The rustle of people standing to their feet enter my ear followed by the click of a door, as heavy steps retreat down the hall.

  I turn away toward my paintings and anxiously bite at my nails.

  My pn will need some modification. Originally I had intended to use the Daoists to escape, but it’s become clear that they’re far from trustworthy. I can’t rely on any help from them. If anything, colborating with them would put me in even more danger.

  I look again toward one of my newest paintings. One of a night sky full of stars with a pitch bck moon.

  Perhaps I should look at this differently.

  Maybe, just maybe I can still find a use for them…

  They’re Daoists. Surely they should have something on them I could use to escape? I’m certainly not above theft if it means survival.

  Night is coming, and while they may be cultivators, they need sleep just like any other man.

  I am desperate however, and for my mind sleep would be a long time coming.

  I sit down before my paintings once again, and close my eyes while I simply listen.

  Slowly my breathing calms as I focus on the measured drip drip drip of a nearby clepsydra as its drops steadily keep time second by second.

  I open my eyes as a determined look comes over my face.

  The moon has come to its peak, and the time is here.

  I slowly creak open the sliding door as I step softly into the hallway.

  The dim light of the moon guides my steps as I carefully approach the guest room and wedge my finger between the wall and the door. Opening it with a slight press to move it only small fractions at a time until I have just enough room to push my thin frame through.

  The cultivator lies sound asleep on the futon. Blissfully unaware of my entry and I would dearly love to keep it that way.

  I step softly avoiding spots where I know the floorboards like to creak, as I search the floor and shelves.

  The daoists coat is hung by the door, its pockets wide and inviting. A quick dig reveals two things. A small perfectly round pearl that seems to swirl with red smoke within, and a little bck book. Unbeled and rough, it doesn’t seem to be anything too important.

  Before I can open the cover however, the Daoist gives a sudden snort and moves to sit up.

  Terror grips my soul as I look around me in a desperate bid for something. Anything that can get me out of here.

  The door? Too far, I wouldn’t make it in time.

  Come on! Anything at all!

  -there! A painting on the wall behind me!

  My heart pounds in my ears as time seems to slow. My hand reaches out and a single finger nds on the canvas.

  And just like that I find myself in a forest standing by a brook.

  I colpse to my knees before turning and falling on my back.

  My head spins as I look up at the treetops, just shrouding a blue sky that swirls with the brushstrokes of a painter.

  My heart doesn’t handle this stress very well. Perhaps my creator had a naturally weak body?

  Whatever the case may be…

  I think I’ll just wait a little bit before I exit the painting?