The painter would take advantage of the daytime when the yang energy was at its strongest, have his soul leave his body, and sneak into the tomb from the location drawn by the master of feng shui. He would see what the tomb owner looked like in life, and then his soul would return to his body and paint the tomb owner's soul into the painting. After the tomb raiding was over, the painting would be burned, thus completing the painting ritual.
The reason for burning the portrait before it's finished is a rule passed down from the painter's ancestors: the portrait cannot be burned before all the money is stolen, because the tomb owner will use the money to bribe the spirits and redeem their soul. After the money is stolen, the tomb owner has no money left for bribery and can only wait for their soul to be burned.
This is probably another way of saying that wealth can influence things.
While the artist was painting, the group had already started digging the tomb. By the time they had finished digging, the artist had also finished painting.
The group went down into the tomb, while the painter stood guard outside.
No one expected that it would suddenly start raining in broad daylight.
The painter hurriedly found something to cover the painting to prevent it from getting wet.
Who knew that this time it was a waterfall of rain, the rain cascading down like a waterfall and hitting the painting with perfect precision.
The portrait was smashed through, and the soul of the tomb owner on it was completely blurred and unrecognizable.
The artist was stunned; in all his years in the industry, he had never encountered anything like it.
He cried out in alarm and quickly shouted towards the cave entrance, "Come up quickly!"
However, it was too late.
A sudden tremor shook the ground, followed by a plume of black smoke that rushed out of the tunnel and hit the painter in the face. The painter couldn't catch his breath and was overcome by the fumes.
When he woke up, he found himself in a farmer's house in the village, where a girl with thick eyebrows and big eyes was feeding him water.
He heard from the girl that the tunnel had collapsed, and none of the dozen or so people inside came out; they were all dead.
He was lucky; he was only knocked unconscious at the entrance of the cave, and he didn't get trapped when the tunnel collapsed, otherwise he might have died.
The painter remained silent, glancing at the painting brush hanging around his neck, which had turned from gold to black. He knew it wasn't just good luck; the brush had shielded him from disaster. Otherwise, he probably would have died too.
After this experience, the artist felt that he had probably angered the ghosts by robbing too many tombs, which led to this disaster. He thought that he might not be so lucky next time because the golden pen had saved him from disaster. So he decided to give up tomb raiding and never do it again.
He stayed in the village from then on, married the girl with thick eyebrows and big eyes who had saved him, and lived a peaceful life. He had several big, healthy sons, helped them find wives and have children, and hoped that his descendants would continue the family line for generations to come.
That painter was my grandfather.
I grew up listening to my grandfather tell stories of tomb raiding, about how high his status was in the tomb raiding world. I didn't believe it at all; I just listened to it as a story.
The reason I don't believe my grandfather is that his drawings are like scribbles, and you can't even make out a human figure.
Grandpa said, "The soul is a spirit, how can it have a human form? The soul is the most difficult thing to draw in the world. It's easy to draw a person, but difficult to draw a soul. You don't understand. When you reach my level, you will understand my paintings."
Later, my grandfather passed away.
No one nagged me with those stories anymore, and I got into the Academy of Fine Arts, thus entering a different world. The strange and wonderful stories my grandfather told me were relegated to a corner.
Until one day...
I visited a museum exhibition and saw many items unearthed from a cemetery. Among them was a gold pen, which I recognized immediately as the exact same jet-black pen that my grandfather treasured…
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