Li Furong had been spoiled rotten since childhood by Master Li and Li Huaijin, which naturally made her arrogant, domineering, and petty.
To think some thief dared to steal right under her nose! The useless officials couldn’t even track down a petty criminal, so she had no choice but to flex the power of money.
Ninth glanced at the boots the guard was holding up, then turned to look at Fang Songhe’s feet.
Suddenly, it clicked. Just as he opened his mouth—smack—Chu'he covered it, stopping him from accidentally spilling the beans.
Fang Songhe flushed with embarrassment. He was a man of rules, and the few times he’d stepped out of line had been at Ninth’s instigation. Unlike Ninth, who treated rules as mere suggestions, Fang Songhe had no experience handling such situations and was terrified of being recognized.
Clearing his throat, he said, “We should hurry and find that painter.”
Without another word, he strode away.
With a hefty reward on offer, “leads” poured in.
A crowd of money-hungry folks swarmed forward, each claiming to have information. Li Furong couldn’t be bothered to deal with such crude, ill-mannered people, so she left it to the Li family to handle. Glancing at the sky, the old man’s words echoed in her mind, making her restless.
After a moment, she stood up.
Her maid quickly asked, “Where is the young mistress going?”
“It’s too noisy here. I need some air. I’ll be back soon—don’t follow me.”
Following the gathered clues, Chu'he and the others soon found Painter Gao on East Street, eking out a living by selling his artwork.
Compared to other painters, Painter Gao’s business was dismal—his style was too avant-garde, his colors too bold, and most people couldn’t appreciate it yet.
After a whole morning without a single sale, he slumped over his table with a sigh. “Looks like I’ll have to borrow rice again this month.”
“Painter Gao.” A young man with striking brows and an upright bearing spoke gently. “I’m Fang Songhe. We met before, in the water dungeon.”
“Of course I remember! You’re the great hero Fang!” Painter Gao jumped to his feet, then noticed the young couple beside him—also familiar faces. “And Young Master Ninth, Miss Chu'he! What an honor!”
When he saw Ninth holding Chu'he’s hand, his eyes nearly popped out, but he forced himself to stay composed.
Back in the dungeon, when Ninth—a Miao tribesman—had burst in and shared that bizarrely “harmonious” moment with Lord Chu, Painter Gao had thought it surreal. Surely there was some misunderstanding—how could Lord Chu ever accept a Miao man as his son-in-law?
But now, seeing Ninth and Miss Chu'he so clearly in love, it made sense why Lord Chu treated Ninth like his own son!
Chu'he placed a silver ingot on the table. “Painter Gao, we’d like you to paint something for us.”
“What would you like me to paint?”
Fang Songhe said, “That eerie old man—whatever he asked you to paint, we want the same.”
Painter Gao shuddered, still haunted. “Well… truth be told, that old man described the person he wanted me to paint, but I didn’t dare. I had a bad feeling he meant to harm whoever it was.”
Fang Songhe nodded. “Exactly why we want to find and protect that person first.”
Painter Gao hesitated.
Chu'he added, “Painter Gao, this is the renowned hero Fang Songhe! With him here, nothing will go wrong. If you’re scared, you can stay at our place until Fang Songhe deals with that sinister figure. Every day we delay, that person is in greater danger. Even if you don’t trust others, surely you trust Hero Fang?”
Fang Songhe straightened his back even more, his earlier awkwardness completely gone.
Perhaps freed from the Li family’s shadow, his heroic aura had returned. After a long internal struggle, Painter Gao finally gritted his teeth.
“Fine. I’ll trust Hero Fang.”
Though his style was unconventional, Painter Gao’s skill was undeniable. In no time, a black-and-white portrait took shape.
“Based on that man’s description, this should be the person he’s looking for.”
Fang Songhe took the portrait and frowned. “Who is this middle-aged man?”
Chu'he tiptoed to peek. “Let me see too.”
Suddenly, the portrait was snatched from Fang Songhe’s hands.
Chu'he redirected her tiptoeing, grabbing the thief’s arm. “Let me see!”
Ninth raised the portrait high, pretending to study it. “Hmm. An ugly old man. Not much to look at.”
Chu'he hopped a few times but couldn’t see a thing. Annoyed, she kicked him. “Ninth!”
Ninth pressed his lips together, sulking that she’d kick him but not Fang Songhe.
Then again—hitting was affection, scolding was love. Of course she’d kick him.
His eyes glinted with amusement as he lowered the portrait, offering it to her with a smile. “Here, take a look.”
His grin sent a shiver down her spine. Rubbing her arms, she studied the portrait and frowned. “Don’t recognize him.”
Ninth leaned in, their heads touching. “See? Me neither.”
Chu'he shot him a look. Of course he didn’t know—if he had nothing to add, he could’ve just stayed quiet.
“What do we do now?” A third head joined them, voice troubled. “If we search openly, it might attract the wrong attention.”
Ninth scowled at Fang Songhe, annoyed their shoulders had touched.
Fang Songhe, oblivious, remained deep in thought.
“Isn’t that Hunter Ma, the one who lives on the mountain outside town?”
A fourth head appeared, accompanied by an elderly voice.
Chu'he gasped. “Doctor Wu!”
The doctor, carrying his medicine box, stroked his beard with a chuckle. “I just finished treating Young Master Li and happened to see you all huddled here.”
His gaze lingered on Ninth—a mix of fear and curiosity, as if he wanted to say something but held back.
Ninth pulled Chu'he closer, his tone impatient. “What is it?”
Doctor Wu said, “A while back, I overheard Miss Chu'he and you discussing the ‘poison against poison’ method. Does it truly work? I’ve heard Miao poison arts are extraordinary, but if combined with traditional medicine, could they revolutionize healing?”
Ninth smiled. “Or the patient might just die from the poison first.”
Doctor Wu shuddered. “Never mind, then!”
Fang Songhe interjected politely, “Doctor Wu, you know the man in the portrait?”
“Of course! That’s Hunter Ma. He got injured hunting recently—I treated him. He keeps to himself, living alone on treacherous Little Year Mountain, hunting for a living. I’ve urged him to come down, but he refuses. A real loner.”
