You rascal, stop right there!

"Sir, oh no, Academician Ling. The White Deer Cave Academy you built is almost ready. You said before that I would be the riding and archery instructor, is that true?"

Lin Yan said angrily.

Ling Shumo looked up at the white stone wall plaque built in the mountains. The breeze blew past him, and he felt a faint loneliness.

"Of course it's true. If you beat everyone in the entrance exam, you can enter the academy. You can't let your talent go to waste."

It seems that he actually didn't like being an official in the court, and he only took calligraphy and painting as a hobby.

From the very beginning, I wanted to be a free and easy academician. If it weren't for...

Every scene of the past is unforgettable.

The old friend remains, the talent remains...

Ling Shumo suppressed the confusion in his heart and sighed. He plucked the strings with his fingertips, but the strings broke.

"Boom!"

What he remembered was the map of the world that person had mentioned...

Ah Bai...

The art of painting that Han Miaoran wants to pursue is more important than anything else, including him.

He stopped calmly and smiled leisurely, but his throat was swollen and painful.

"Is it because Painter Han has been in seclusion so far, and you can't stand it, young master?"

Ling Shumo's breath was held, and then he smiled faintly.

Even A Yan could see that his mood was not right.

"No, it's nothing..."

He said lightly.

When the strings in his hand were swept across a little more, blood vessels began to tremble.

The moon is low and the night is deep.

Ling Shumo sighed and quietly returned to the courtyard, their thatched cottage.

Everything was brightly lit by the candlelight, and it was obvious that no one was asleep yet.

During the period of seclusion, Bai Wan always slept in the study and never returned to their bedroom.

He looked inside through the crack of the half-open door, his expression as dark as ink.

The people in the house were still lying on the ground.

The man with messy black hair, his passion for painting slowly blossoming from his eyebrows and eyes under the candlelight, is the Saint of Painting, not his Ah Bai.

Bai Wan bent over the scroll and was so moved by the painting.

A teardrop flows from the corner of the eye down the cheek, and falls onto the pen from the tip of the nose. Every inch it flows is a way of painting that penetrates into the bone marrow.

Ling Shumo stared at it intently, his body trembling slightly unconsciously.

In the snow that year.

"Brother Zichen, wait for me in the capital. When I draw the best picture in the world, I will definitely come to find you!"

……

It turns out that he still cares about this matter.

The No. 1 Picture in the World occupies this person's entire heart.

It is true that there are two heroes of Mo Ran, but there is only one Saint of Painting.

Since Han Miaoran returned to China, his paintings have been admired and spread throughout the three countries.

The number of people seeking paintings, apprenticeships, and meetings is more than ten times greater than in the past.

Anyone who studies painting and can copy a realistic imitation of Han Miaoran will be able to gain some favor.

Emperor Qingwu Song Yuanshan also used his name to win over the literati of Xuanli and Lingyu.

Fortunately, they are living in seclusion here and will not be discovered for the time being.

When he was admiring her fame and being moved by her persistence and forgetting everything else, an uninvited guest finally came behind the thatched hut.

"Sir, this person wants to see you. I don't know where he came from, but he found himself here..."

He has a fair complexion, a beard that reaches his collar, and an air of an immortal, who is indifferent to worldly affairs.

Ling Shumo looked at this Taoist priest and felt that he looked familiar.

"It's already late today. Why did you go to so much trouble to come here?"

The Taoist bowed and said, "My name is Wutong Zhenren, and I have come here specifically to see the painting master Han Miaoran, Master Ling."

Few people in the world knew that they were living in seclusion here, not to mention that after the fall of Daying, Buddhists and Taoists did not dare to show off.

Ling Shumo had to carefully examine this Taoist priest. He was probably someone Abai knew, but had never told him about it.

"I calculated that if he continues like this, he will go crazy and even end his life because of Danqing!"

Ling Shumo didn't understand and looked anxious.

"what are you saying?"

The old man, with an air of immortality, twirled his beard and said, "He has immense talent and could paint everything in the world. However, he pours all his joys and sorrows into his paintings, and eventually his energy will run out."

In this world, how could there be people who can still look at life with a smile despite having a miserable fate?

After going through so much, how can you still not show any pain?

Unless, he vents all his emotions through painting.

Ling Shumo was stunned for a moment: "Master, you have come a long way, so you should go to the guest room and rest first. There should still be some hot water at this time."

Obviously, he didn't believe these words, and was even more unwilling to believe them.

However, he still politely invited people to take a seat.

"I have a connection with Han Huasheng and want to resolve his emotional issues. If I continue like this, I might exhaust myself and die young."

It's not impossible.

Because Han Miaoran was indeed exhausted from the imprisonment many years ago and the subsequent blindness, and her health has not been very good.

Ling Shumo prided himself on understanding him, so he never really stopped him from painting the best picture in the world.

This indulgence also contributes to someone's careless exhaustion.

"He was destined to be accompanied by Danqing in this life. He should have died for Danqing back then. If he couldn't stop it, he would have died young because of the lonely painting that had been with him for a thousand years."

At night, the candle in the window still flickered.

The sound of cicadas is endless and the rain is drizzling.

Ling Shumo's heart was shaken, his expression frozen and silent: "What does the Taoist want?"

"Take him to the Taoist temple to practice and temporarily stop painting."

"no!"

Ling Shumo refused without hesitation, his tone extremely firm.

Taoist Wutong was startled.

The so-called gentle and elegant Lin'an hermit with a light voice spoke these words in a sonorous and powerful voice, without any weakness in firmness.

"I won't let him leave me again!"

Ling Shumo handed a teacup to Taoist Wutong and gazed at the simple pattern on it with deep affection.

"I've known him for over ten years, day after day, and he's blossomed and borne fruit. Danqing is more important to him than I am to him... If he really dies young because of this... then we'll face the consequences together..."

"Death of marriage... is this what you mean?"

Taoist Wutong obviously guessed the unknown relationship between the two and finally realized how ridiculous it was.