The mountain wind sleeps with the pine forest, and a fine drizzle dampens the bright moon.
Minamoto Wakasei made his way through the woods, spotting from afar a single cluster of candlelight like a spark amid the dark trees, with the rain tapping out a melody on the pine needles. His expensive leather shoes squelched into the mud as he quickened his pace and pushed open the only illuminated cabin.
The candlelight flickered. An old man in white linen robes sat by the hearth, with a sheet of plain white rice paper unfurled before him, holding a writing brush in deep contemplation.
"You informed me that the people from Headquarters are coming, yet you hide away in a cabin in the woods. You certainly have a lot of leisure time." Minamoto Wakasei familiarly found a towel to dry himself off, then sat cross-legged on the floor by the hearth beside the old man. "Why switch to painting? Not forging swords today?"
"It has nothing to do with the season, nor with the method," the old man gazed quietly ahead at the expanse of pure, jade-like rice paper, saying in a deep voice. "Forging swords is a spiritual practice, and painting is too. There is an old saying in China: no matter what realm you encounter, if your mind is pure within, without attachment, without self, and without worldly concerns, you will find peace, and your mind will be at ease."
The old man remained still for a full half-hour before finally beginning to paint. The soft brush hairs swept heavily and brushed lightly ac…
Chapter 287