Kashchey and Dusk quarreled for three days and three nights.
To Dusk, his drawings were utterly devoid of meaning. As a painter who had long secluded herself from the world, she could not comprehend his so-called "art."
Not only had this stranger broken through her Paintings and dared to sketch at her doorstep, he even had the audacity to ask her what she thought of his work…
Wasn't that the same as deliberately picking a fight?
For Kashchey, though, the situation quickly shifted. At first, the sudden appearance of this woman startled him, but he soon realized she wasn't an official agent of Yan.
If she truly had been, she would have struck him down mid-sketch—rather than merely insulting his art.
But heavens, her tongue was venomous.
When had Kashchey ever been spoken to like this?
His sketches, in his mind, were already of such quality they could be called fine works, lacking only the polish of a true master. And besides—he was a Duke of Ursus. Even the great masters, if they saw his work, would surely praise his remarkable technique.
One couldn't possibly expect an amateur's hobby to match a professional's craft.
So when the woman dismissed his drawing as worthless, Kashchey—long used only to admiration—found his pride pierced.
He fought back with words, unleashing a flood of technical terms from the world of sketching, determined to prove his art was not as terrible as she claimed.
But Dusk had no patience for concepts like "sketch" or "stylistic shading." She conceded his so-called sketch had its own unusual flavor, but she would never bow her head.
If he had come to disrupt her peace, then she would respond in kind.
So, on the spot, she painted a landscape.
Kashchey glanced at it and—grudgingly—admitted it was excellent. But back down? Absolutely not.
His work had been condemned from the perspective of ink painting, a standard he found utterly unfair.
And so the argument escalated, straying far from its original point, until it turned into an outright war of "ink painting versus sketching—which is superior?"
Their tempers flared, and soon they were fighting once again.
For another three days and three nights.
---
"You just wait!"
The Lung-bodied youth, battered and bruised, spat the words like a curse.
The woman's power and Arts had made Kashchey recall who she truly was—
One of Yan's fabled Twelve Fragments: Dusk.
This isn't a trap, is it? Or is my luck really that bad?
"Hmph! So that's all you can do? Empty words to mask your weakness?"
Though wounded herself, Dusk had fared better overall. She looked at him with undisguised scorn.
"Heh. Can't match me in art, so you resort to your fists? Pathetic."
Kashchey kept up his bravado, though inwardly he was ready to retreat.
If she truly was one of the Twelve Fragments, then there was a high chance agents of the Bureau of Years were nearby.
If it came to that, he would have no choice but to abandon this vessel.
"Trying to run?"
With a flick of her hand, Dusk sent streaks of ink flying, weaving them into ropes that lashed toward him.
Kashchey summoned the vessel's Arts, forming blades of wind that shredded the inky bonds.
And then, he fled.
But not before snatching up the bundled drawing from the ground.
Dusk, watching his ragged retreat, chose not to give chase. She bent down and picked up the other painting he had left behind.
Almost immediately, she realized something was wrong.
…That idiot took the wrong one.
---
…I took the wrong one.
In a humble inn within Yan's borders, Kashchey sat with Dusk's ink painting laid before him, studying it with quiet intensity.
He had seen ink paintings before, even critiqued them. But this—this was easily the most profound, most evocative work he had ever laid eyes upon.
And within the painted world of her art, Dusk herself now carefully examined Kashchey's so-called "sketch."
Even Dusk had to admit—this "sketching" style possessed its own distinct charm.
…I should probably return it.
For Kashchey, their clash had been fierce, but she had held back at every turn, never once unleashing a killing blow. That meant she did not see him as an enemy.
And for Dusk, though he had provoked her, it had only ever been a battle of art. There was no need to stain her hands with blood. Besides—her pride as a painter would never allow her to keep another's work.
And so, the two of them found themselves back where they had first met.
After a tense silence, it was Kashchey who lowered his head first.
"…I must admit, your ink painting carries a certain elegance."
"…And your sketches were not as worthless as I claimed."
---
As time passed, the two grew familiar with one another.
"Ink painting may not be bad," Kashchey conceded, "but I simply have no interest in learning it."
"Oh? Then you'll just keep doodling like a three-year-old's scribbles? What did you call it again—ah, 'abstract art.'"
"Have you truly never seen the geometric beauty within it?"
"And you—can you not feel the profound resonance of ink painting?"
"I can feel it. But I've no desire to be lectured endlessly by a haughty recluse who shuts herself away at home."
"Heh… and I've no interest in someone parading his so-called 'modern knowledge.'"
"Is that so? Then perhaps you should return the film player I gave you."
"Then return my painting to me."
"…Petty miser."
"…Arrogant fool."
---
"…Dusk, why did you move the entrance? I almost couldn't find it."
Kashchey stepped into the painted world, where Dusk sat at her desk, brush in hand.
"…You're insufferable. Must the Duke of Ursus constantly pester me? Don't you have matters of your own to attend to?"
"The Duke of Ursus is one thing. But today, the one visiting you is merely a friend, a fellow art enthusiast, a wandering Yan artist—Zhu Jiuyin."
"…You're exactly like my insufferable second brother. Fine then—keep indulging in your little role-play."
Zhu Jiuyin stole a glance at her latest work.
From what he could see, her recent paintings had clearly declined in quality.
…It seems that Celestial Master's destruction of her prized piece wounded her deeply.
He watched as Dusk, face tense with frustration, tore her just-finished painting to shreds.
And here… is my chance to strengthen our friendship.
With a flourish, Zhu Jiuyin produced a copy he had secretly made—a reproduction of the very masterpiece that Celestial Master had destroyed.
"Look here—doesn't this resemble it? I even used my true form to make the copy! Moved, aren't you? Besides, sulking alone only punishes yourself. And isn't that exactly what your enemies would want to see?"
"…Your plagiarism is an insult to my art. If you came here seeking a fight, I'll gladly oblige."
"Eh? You don't like it?"
"No artist would ever cherish a forgery. Now—leave my study. Immediately."
"My apologies. I miscalculated. I only thought you'd find it troublesome to repaint that work, so I poured time and effort into this reproduction instead. Very well—I'll let you cool your temper. But—"
At the door, Zhu Jiuyin added with a playful smile:
"Though a Duke of Ursus cannot act openly… a free-spirited wanderer might help you vent your anger."
"…Get out."
"As you wish. I'll come again another day."
Knowing when to stop, Zhu Jiuyin withdrew from the painted world.
"..."
Dusk's gaze fell on the painting he left behind.
At first glance, the lines and colors were an exact replica of her lost work.
And yet, something was missing.
Somehow, the piece felt utterly hollow.
How could anyone paint something so empty?