I was about to step forward for a closer look when I was knocked down by a shove from behind. The cawing of crows blared in my ears, and the flapping of their wings, which stung my face, forced me to wave them away as I stumbled backward until I retreated into another doorway.
A cat's meow sounded from behind, and a crow with a similarly mottled head suddenly hovered at the doorway, cawed a few times in dissatisfaction, then flapped its wings and darted into a dark corner.
Crows may hurt you, but cats won't.
A faint warmth emanated from the hair tied to my finger, and a sweet, young girl's voice came from very close by, only to drift away in the flowing wind.
Looking back, there was no more light except at the end of the corridor. On one side of the narrow corridor, portraits with faces blackened by charred soot hung neatly, while on the other side were closed windows.
The sky outside the window was dark and gloomy, and the unfamiliar trees and bushes swayed wildly in the gale. Fragments of lightning seemed to flash through the surging clouds, like a nest of harbingers of disaster, about to unleash calamity and calamity.
The lantern in his hand became the only remaining light.
Having learned from my previous experience, I was more careful with the uneven ground beneath my feet. Although it was still difficult to walk on, at least I avoided the embarrassing situation of getting my feet stuck in the sand.
The cat continued to lead the way slowly ahead, occasionally turning its head to meow at me, as if urging me on. Although I couldn't see its black body clearly, its colorful head became extremely conspicuous in the darkness, clearly pointing me in the direction to go.
The wind grew stronger and more intense, and the portraits on the wall disappeared for a while before being replaced by new ones.
It should be a sunflower, a cat, a crow, and a woman who is probably very young. The reason I use such an ambiguous description is because I cannot confirm what colors are on those heads hovering around them. What are they there to conceal, or are they simply there for a reason?
It was only then that I suddenly realized a mistake I had made.
Is what I see through the window really the scenery outside?
I felt the wind rustling, I saw lightning flash—indeed, there was no doubt about it. But what about sound? I heard nothing, only the hairs on my fingertips growing increasingly hot.
The cat not far away quietly turned around and looked at me, seemingly wondering why I hadn't continued to follow.
Not far from it, a lone light flickered at a steady frequency, illuminating the outline of the next door.
I suddenly realized.
So that's how it is. From the moment I stepped into this place, I was already in the [gallery].
Annoying cawing pierced through from my side, and a fluttering black shadow leaped over the false window frame, striking in an instant and knocking the lantern from my hand.
Just before everything was plunged into darkness, I seemed to hear a familiar chuckle, as if it were mocking my arrogance and ignorance.
"Father, may I learn to paint?"
A childish voice rang out, and in the next instant, darkness descended once more.
...
"Father, may I learn to paint?"
Whenever I asked my father this question when I was young, he would always show a complicated expression and then gently stroke my head with his large palm.
Afterwards, he would take me out to buy all sorts of beautiful dresses, enjoy sweet and delicious meals, and visit the amusement park rides I'd wanted to go to for a long time.
After a crazy time, I was exhausted and naturally put that inexplicable thought out of my mind as soon as possible.
I brought this up again after returning from the academy.
At that time, I was already able to set up simple magic arrays, officially becoming a novice mage capable of changing my own destiny, and a source of pride for my father. But for some reason, this restless heart couldn't help but stir up this thought again, like a raging flood, the rising tide threatening to engulf me.
I was terrified, so I cried and confided in my father.
On that day, my father, who looked much older, touched my head and remained silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed and told me the secret that had been hidden for so long.
This brings me to my mother. As far back as I can remember, aside from the only portrait we have in our home, I've never actually seen my mother. According to my father, she committed suicide due to depression shortly after giving birth to me.
But that's not the case.
In the bloodline of my mother's lineage, there is a unique art that can enhance the integrity and beauty of a painting simply by offering sacrifices. Whether one wishes to endow a painting with special abilities or to give it its own life, this shortcut can be easily obtained without the need for ordinary artists to hone their techniques or resort to alchemical secrets.
Of course, the best offering among these must be the artist's own possessions.
From the body, including the soul.
This led to an unusually fervent pursuit of this bloodline, which was already skilled in painting, by some people—including but not limited to some unscrupulous means—ultimately resulting in a dwindling population.
My father and mother were unaware of these things when they fell in love. He simply happened to save her from her panicked escape, and after helping and accompanying her along the way, they eventually married in a secluded rural area. My mother confessed to him partly out of guilt for keeping it a secret, and partly to test his attitude, but it can't be said that there was no other reason at all.
But her father didn't care. He just became more careful to protect her secret and existence, and he handled most of the things that needed to be done when she went out, just to better protect his wife who was about to give birth.
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