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Reverse Painting of Mountains and Seas: The Living Figurines of Chang'an
墨書 Inktalez
The drum sounded three times, and the grand city of Chang'an lay like a slumbering beast, sinking into a brief silence after the clamor of the day. I curled up in my cold bed, contemplating tomorrow's trip to the West Market to exchange for some charcoal, when a sharp knock echoed through the night, eerie as if a ghost were rapping at my door.
“Wu Daizhao! Wu Daizhao! Urgent matter! A noble summons!”
The voice outside was high-pitched and thin, unmistakably that of a palace eunuch or a servant from some grand residence. My heart tightened; such late-night "urgent calls" rarely boded well. In the shadow of the emperor, every step is fraught with peril, and one misstep could ruin a future. "Better to avoid trouble than to invite it," was the first rule I learned in this city.
But to ignore it? If I did not go, I might not even keep this shabby studio by morning. Offending someone from above made life in Chang'an unbearable. Reluctantly, I crawled out of bed, draping myself in an old robe that had faded and worn at the cuffs, my fingers instinctively rubbing it as if to brush away the bone-deep chill.
The carriage that came for me was unremarkable, a small blue cloth vehicle that took me deep into an unfamiliar district. The red door was tightly shut, lacking even a plaque, with only two lanterns swaying in the night breeze, casting a dim glow over the menacing door knocker that resembled two watchful eyes. The guiding eunuch kept his head bowed and spoke not a word; the oppressive atmosphere felt more stifling than that of the imperial palace, imbued with an air of secrecy best left unexamined.
After passing through several courtyards, I was led into a secluded study. The furnishings were exquisite: a zitan wood desk adorned with replicas of famous paintings from previous dynasties hung on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and ink mixed with an indistinct hint of something sweet and metallic.
“Wu Daizhao, this ancient painting is damaged; please take care to restore it,” said the eunuch, pointing at a scroll laid out on the desk. His voice remained sharp yet carried an undeniable authority.
As I approached for a closer look, I gasped involuntarily. It was an ancient silk painting depicting a creature not found in any records of the Classic of Mountains and Seas—something resembling a tiger or leopard but covered in scales with bony spikes protruding from its back and eyes that were hollow and sinister. The style was archaic yet flowed with an unsettling smoothness. The ink was particularly strange; it wasn’t ordinary soot or oil ink but dark and heavy like congealed blood. As I leaned closer, that faint metallic sweetness intensified.
“Make haste,” the eunuch said curtly before silently retreating and closing the door behind him.
I steadied my nerves and opened my tool kit, retrieving my well-worn wolf hair brush whose handle felt warm and smooth from years of use. This was my livelihood. Taking a deep breath, I began mixing pigments. Restoring ancient paintings required meticulous attention.
Just as I carefully filled in a damaged line with my brush, muffled sobs suddenly emerged from the adjacent room—just a wall away—like something struggling desperately but silenced.
My hand trembled; a drop of ink nearly marred the painting. Alarm bells rang in my mind. In this dead of night, in such a mysterious residence, those sounds could not bode well. Instinctively wanting to ignore it and focus on my work, I found myself unable to do so as the struggle intensified, accompanied by unsettling sounds reminiscent of bones being twisted.
Curiosity can indeed be fatal sometimes. Perhaps it was an artist's instinct; I was overly sensitive to details. I noticed that one corner of the wall seemed slightly loose, allowing faint light and clearer sounds to seep through. Compelled by an unseen force, I held my breath and cautiously peered through the gap—
In just one glance, my stomach churned violently as if I might vomit right then and there.
The room next door was darker than the study, illuminated only by a few dim oil lamps casting murky shadows. On the floor lay a man bound hand and foot with cloth stuffed in his mouth; his body writhed like a dying fish. His whimpers were filled with pain and despair.
Surrounding him were three or four figures cloaked in black robes with their faces obscured by dark cloths except for their eyes gleaming ominously in the dim light. One held a thick tool that resembled anything but a brush dipped into something from a stone bowl—something thick and black exuding an odor identical to that of the ancient painting!
He was using that tool to… paint on the bare back of the living man!
The design being painted was unmistakably that same strange creature pattern I had been restoring! With each stroke applied, the bound man's body convulsed violently as if something alive writhed beneath his skin. That ink… no, it wasn’t ink at all! It seemed alive itself, infused with some malevolent vitality seeping into his skin and leaving behind bizarre black markings.
The speed of their work was swift and cruelly practiced. As they finished with one final stroke forming a complete creature emblem coiling across his back, the bound man arched violently upward, emitting an unearthly shriek that pierced through the cloth gag and drilled into my eardrums.
Then I watched helplessly as his body began to twist and contort unnaturally in ways that sent chills down my spine. Bones cracked under pressure; muscles swelled and tore apart while his skin rapidly developed darkened scales akin to armor… His eyes turned murky and hollow until they mirrored those of the creature depicted!
“Living… living corpse…” The words exploded in my mind uncontrollably. My blood ran cold; my teeth chattered involuntarily as if frozen solid; my throat felt blocked as if I couldn’t draw breath at all. Gasping for air while feeling icy all over, my limbs refused to obey me.
Then came a loud crash!
The overwhelming fear caused me to lose my balance, and I crashed into the low table behind me, sending the inkstone and paint dishes clattering to the ground. The black ink splattered everywhere, resembling a panicked snake.
Silence.
The sounds from the adjacent room abruptly ceased.
I froze in place, my blood seemingly congealed. It was over.
The door creaked open violently, and a figure in a black robe appeared in the doorway. Those eyes, hidden in darkness, locked onto me like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, taking in my disheveled state and the chaos on the floor.
"Who told you to..." His voice was hoarse and cold.
At that moment, the will to survive overwhelmed all fear. My mind raced, replaying the route I had taken upon entering like a painting unfurling in my mind—every corner, every play of light and shadow... The artist's memory of space and attention to detail saved me. I recalled that there was an inconspicuous little side door at the end of the corridor on my right when I entered. The door ring was thick with dust, as if it hadn't been used in ages, leading toward the back garden!
Seizing the moment while the figure in black was still processing whether to kill me first or deal with the freshly "completed" puppet, I abruptly turned and sprinted toward the remembered side door with all my strength!
Behind me came hurried footsteps and a low growl. I dared not look back; my heart raced as if it would explode. In the darkness, I stumbled like a headless fly, relying solely on that faint memory and instinct. I found it! The cold door ring! I yanked it hard; the hinges screeched painfully as it swung open!
Beyond the door lay deeper darkness and a cold wind carrying the scent of earth. I dashed out without a second thought, running for my life. It seemed someone had pursued me, but I could no longer afford to care.
I lost track of time as I ran until my legs felt as heavy as lead and my lungs burned fiercely. Finally, I dared to hide in a dark alley corner, leaning against the cold wall while gasping for breath.
The moonlight was dim, illuminating my trembling hands. Instinctively, I raised my sleeve to wipe away the cold sweat from my forehead but froze suddenly.
On the cuff of my right sleeve was a large stain. It wasn't just ordinary ink spilled on the ground... It was dark, viscous, carrying an unremovable metallic-sweet scent... something sinister!
It clung to the fabric as if alive, icy and piercing; that smell invaded my nostrils, reminding me of the inhuman screams and twisted bodies from the adjacent room.
I rubbed at it vigorously, but the stain remained stubbornly imprinted like a brand.
Fear washed over me again, more intense than before. This wasn't just an ordinary trouble; this was dark sorcery capable of turning living beings into monsters! They wouldn't let me go! I had seen things I shouldn't have seen and now bore this damned mark!
I had to leave Chang'an! Immediately! Right now!
I stumbled back to my feet and fled toward my dilapidated studio as if escaping for my life. The night wind blew past me, and that cold stain on my sleeve felt like a ghostly eye silently watching me from within the darkness.
I knew I was being hunted. And this fear was just beginning.
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