"…So, when you say 'your masterpiece,' you mean the territory you govern?"
In a tea house styled after Yan's traditions within the Duchy of Kashchey, Dusk sat in disguise across from a young Lung-blooded man. He wore small round sunglasses, a Daoist robe, a conspicuously fake mustache beneath his lip, and a peachwood sword strapped to his waist.
"How is it? Does it meet the eye of the great painter—Miss Dusk?"
"On the surface it looks prosperous, but… something feels off." Dusk took a measured sip of tea. "Then again, I know nothing of worldly affairs, so I'll reserve judgment. The tea, at least, is authentic."
"I'm glad you enjoy it. The owner's ancestors came from Yan. Though his family immigrated here generations ago, their craft has not been lost."
The Lung extended a sleek black card across the table.
"With this card, you can spend freely anywhere in the duchy. Naturally, the bill goes on my account… Of course, if you overspend, I may come collect a few of your paintings as compensation~"
"…Kashchey, are you implying my art is equal to those vulgar trinkets?"
"Of course not, Miss Dusk. It's merely a gesture of goodwill—reciprocation between friends. Isn't that the very foundation of Yan's etiquette and culture?"
Kashchey quickly smoothed things over. He had only meant it as a harmless jest, never expecting such a sharp reaction.
He truly respected his friends. That was why he hadn't made use of his talent for reading the subtle cues of others.
Absolutely not because he feared that using his mind-reading would be noticed—and that their fragile friendship might be overturned in an instant.
Turning a friend into an enemy? That would be sheer foolishness.
"…"
At length, Dusk accepted the card.
Seeing her tuck it away, Kashchey nodded in satisfaction.
It was time to turn to more serious matters.
"Dusk… Tell me, what is your opinion of the short-lived races?"
"…What do they have to do with me?"
"The connection is far greater than you may think, my friend. In fact, I know a little of you—and of your brothers and sisters."
Kashchey sipped his tea again.
"Long ago, there was a True Lung who believed the gods were indifferent to mortal suffering—coldly watching disasters and calamities befall Yan without lifting a hand. In his rage at such apathy, he rallied the nation, gathering countless heroes and savants to wage war against the gods."
He set the cup down with deliberate care.
The tea house was now utterly empty.
"I felt fury too, my friend."
Kashchey's face twisted into an expression of anger.
"Who did they think they were? They crowned us gods of their own accord, then turned around to denounce us, resenting us for not protecting their weak kind. Did they ever help us? Were we born owing them anything?"
Dusk remained silent.
Seeing her hesitation, Kashchey pressed harder.
"That True Lung slew several so-called 'gods' who dared provoke him. In the aftermath, all beings unwilling to bow were cast out of Yan. The price? Corpses strewn across the land, rivers running red with blood."
"Do you think fewer perished in that war than from natural disasters?"
"Did he truly act for the sake of his people? Or was it rather…"
Kashchey fixed his gaze on Dusk.
"Perhaps it was never about justice at all—
merely about ensuring no one could resist his control?"
"Dusk, I'm afraid. I'm terrified that one day we'll all be shackled by their so-called righteous cause."
"They have never regarded us as their own. What they pursue is not our justice, but only their own."
"Have you forgotten, Dusk? Even your paintings, the works you were once so proud of, were wantonly defaced by them."
"And for what? Did your quiet seclusion ever harm them? No—it was simply to flaunt their strength, to intimidate us, to force us into submission."
"It's disgusting."
Before Kashchey could finish, Dusk rose to her feet, pressing the tip of her sword to his throat.
"Enough, Duke Kashchey. If you called me here only to poison my thoughts, to drive a wedge between me and Yan, all so Ursus can profit from the discord… then I must have been blind to ever call you a friend."
Ink marks swirled and shimmered along the blade.
"Now. Shut. Your. Mouth."
"But I do consider you my friend, Dusk."
Rather than falling silent, Kashchey rose from his seat, stepping past the tea table toward her.
Dusk was forced to retreat.
"Dusk, I know what you fear. You fear the awakening of Suì, and that you yourself will vanish like a dream."
Cracks began to spread across the Lung-bodied youth. Layers of shadow overlapped, fragments of other forms bleeding through the vessel.
He extended a hand toward her.
"And I—I, the Black Snake—fear losing my friend as well."
"..."
Dusk lowered her sword, brushing aside his hand with visible distaste.
"…Disgusting."
She returned to her seat at the table.
"I don't want to continue this topic."
Kashchey, sensing the limit, wisely relented.
He refilled both cups with tea and sat back down across from her.
"My apologies. But I still believe—between friends, we must share words from the heart."
Looking at him, at the earnest expression on his face that betrayed no sign of deceit, Dusk could not help but recall the day they first met.
---
"How can someone's painting be so… strange?"
Dusk's curiosity had been piqued by the unfamiliar Lung-blooded youth who had lingered near her dwelling for days, even managing to pierce through her illusions.
The tools in his hands were unlike any she recognized, and his style of painting even stranger.
"Finally done."
In his borrowed Lung body, Kashchey gazed with satisfaction at his completed work: a simple sketch of the surrounding mountains and streams.
"Not bad at all! I've got quite the talent for painting, don't I?"
He was brimming with pride. Of course, he knew his skill fell short of true masters, but to him, painting was nothing more than a hobby.
As an amateur artist, he was content with his level.
Across his long life, Kashchey had learned to discover and cultivate new interests. After all, if one lives only for the sake of surviving, life becomes unbearably dull.
Just as he was about to pack up his drawing and bring it back to his estate, a cool voice cut in without warning:
"With respect, I fail to see what in that painting merits such self-satisfaction."
Dusk's sharp gaze lingered on the youth, who had been nodding at his own sketch as though deeply pleased.
To her, the work held not the slightest hint of meaning or artistry.
Kashchey nearly leapt from his skin at her sudden appearance.
In all his senses, he had not detected her presence at all.
What—was I so absorbed in painting that I failed to notice? Damn it, have I been discovered by Yan's people?
For a moment, Kashchey faltered, uncertain of how to proceed.
This time, he truly had come in this body just to wander idly. Even he, after all, desired the occasional respite.
As for choosing Yan as his destination—there had been no particular reason. He had simply craved authentic Yan cuisine, and so here he was.
Forcing down his unease before the enigmatic woman, Kashchey put on a calm front and asked:
"Then tell me, miss—what do you see as true artistry?"
Well… worst case, I abandon this hard-won vessel…
Ah, my heart bleeds at the thought!