Marrying My Bestie's Ferocious Brother - He Calls Me His Baby!-Chapter 275 - 274: Is That a Painting? No, It’s the General’s Life!

Chapter 275: Chapter 274: Is That a Painting? No, It’s the General’s Life!

Paint for the elderly?

Paint those memories of war, etched into the bones?

Lin Wan Yi’s heart suddenly sank.

This isn’t painting Happy Sheep.

It’s not painting little animals building houses.

It’s blood, it’s fire, it’s a history stacked with countless lives.

Is she capable of painting that?

On the way home, she didn’t say a word.

Gu Yanshen didn’t ask.

He just slowed his pace, matching her rhythm.

Just as they were nearing home, Lin Wan Yi stopped.

"Gu Yanshen."

"Hmm."

"I’m afraid I won’t paint well."

Her voice was very soft, with a hint of tremor even she didn’t realize.

Gu Yanshen turned around.

He looked at her.

He didn’t say any empty words like "I believe in you."

He just said, "You paint."

"I’ll be with you."

Four words.

Heavier than any promise.

Lin Wan Yi’s heart instantly settled.

For the next three days, she locked herself in the study.

The combat illustrated reports at home had been thumbed through until they were falling apart.

But the more she looked, the more her brows furrowed.

Not right.

None were what she wanted.

The pictures in the books were too proper.

Too standard.

Like heroes and models displayed on a platform.

Famous, with achievements.

Yet, without a soul.

What she wanted to paint were those without names.

Those who fell during the charge, without even a tombstone.

She wanted to paint their beliefs.

But what color is a belief?

Lin Wan Yi dropped her pen and fell onto the bed.

She closed her eyes, her mind in turmoil.

Eventually, she flipped over and sat up.

Space.

She thought of her Spiritual Spring Space.

With a thought, she appeared on that familiar black land.

Everything in the space carried a vibrant vitality.

The spring water was crisp, the land fertile.

The wild fruit trees she had casually planted were already full of blood-red fruits.

Lin Wan Yi walked over and plucked one.

With a light squeeze, the crimson juice flowed through her fingers.

Staining her entire hand.

This red...

Lin Wan Yi looked at her palm.

This was it.

She found a stone mortar and poured in all the wild fruits she gathered.

Pounding them one by one.

Soon, it turned into a mushy red paste.

The color was red enough.

But it was still lacking.

Missing... a trace of human essence.

Lin Wan Yi looked at the bowl of red fruit paste, and, as if guided by an invisible force, retrieved a needle from the small room beside her.

She didn’t hesitate.

Lightly pricked her fingertip.

A drop of blood emerged.

Full and round.

She held her finger over the stone mortar.

The blood drop fell.

"Plop."

A soft sound.

The drop of blood, like a spark, fell into a hot oil pan.

The entire bowl of red paste momentarily bubbled.

An indescribable, scorching shade of red swirled and flowed in the bowl.

Lin Wan Yi then added a spoonful of spiritual spring water.

Slowly grinding it.

Finally, she created a small bowl of paint.

It wasn’t an ordinary red.

It was a living color.

When you look at it, it feels as if it’s burning, breathing.

Conveying a beauty that is both tragic and resolute.

Lin Wan Yi carried it out of the space.

Laid out a new sheet of paper.

This time, she had no hesitation.

Dipping the paint that resembled blood, she drew the first stroke on the paper.

A snow mountain.

An endless range of snow mountains.

At the mountain’s peak.

A young soldier, whose face was indistinguishable.

He wore a thin military uniform, turning his back to the viewer.

Behind him was a red flag, tattered by artillery fire.

Yet the flag was still fluttering in the wind.

That touch of red was the only warm color in the painting.

Also the only sign of life.

She painted for the entire afternoon.

Only when night fully fell did she put down her brush.

She looked at the unfinished sketch and let out a long breath.

"Creak."

The door opened.

Gu Yanshen returned.

Bringing with him the cold from outside.

Seeing Lin Wan Yi was still in the study, he said nothing, only lightening his steps as he walked in.

Then.

He saw the painting on the table.

Gu Yanshen’s footsteps halted.

The man, upright and majestic, stood like a statue, frozen in place.

He didn’t utter a sound.

The study was terrifyingly silent.

Only the sound of the wall clock ticking can be heard.

After a long time.

Long enough for Lin Wan Yi to think he was going to start criticizing something.

Gu Yanshen moved.

He walked to the desk.

Bent down.

His fingers brushed past the tattered red flag on the sketch, separated by a mere inch.

Then, he picked up the pencil Lin Wan Yi had placed aside.

His hand was steady.

A soldier’s hand.

Capable of firing a gun, fighting, and holding the finest pen tip with ease.

At the curled-up soldier’s feet, he lightly sketched a few intersecting lines.

"Wind."

Gu Yanshen’s voice was terribly hoarse.

"It’s coming from this direction."

"The snow will accumulate here."

He pointed at the soldier’s hand holding the gun.

"Wrong."

"Hold it like this."

He demonstrated with his own hand.

"The barrel is made of iron, minus forty degrees, if you touch it with your hand, the skin peels off."

"Five minutes."

"That hand would be useless."

Lin Wan Yi watched him.

His profile, under the lamp, was sharply defined.

Sturdy like a rock cliff.

That night.

He didn’t leave.

He pulled up a chair and sat beside Lin Wan Yi.

He watched her paint.

Wherever she painted, he would narrate.

"The snow on the snow mountains isn’t white."

"Before dawn, it’s bluish-green."

"At noon, it glimmers so intensely, you can’t open your eyes."

"The face of the deceased is also bluish, like ice."

"The red flag is the only color."

"Chasing that speck of red just to stay alive."

He spoke flatly.

Without a trace of emotional fluctuation.

As if telling someone else’s story.

But Lin Wan Yi knew.

That was him.

That was the path their generation walked upon with their lives.

The painting was finally finished.

Lin Wan Yi titled it "Above the Snow Mountain."

Director Qian personally came to collect the painting.

When he saw the painting.

This elderly man who could make reports for hours without a pause.

Stood stunned with an open mouth.

For ages, not a word came out.

His hand trembled.

He wanted to touch the red on the painting.

Yet didn’t dare.

As if afraid of disturbing the spirits within the painting.

"Good..."

In the end, he only spoke this one word.

But his eyes were tearing up.

The painting was carefully rolled up and wrapped with the finest oilcloth.

It was sent to the military district’s senior cadre activity center.

Three o’clock in the afternoon.

The activity center was at its busiest, yet also most lifeless.

A group of old men with gray hair, some playing chess, others cards, some reclining on chairs listening to the radio.

On each face was a kind of numbed waiting-for-death expression.

When Director Qian brought people in, few looked up.

"Old Qian’s here?"

"Another study session?"

"Boring, not attending."

Director Qian didn’t get angry.

He had the painting hung on the most prominent wall of the activity center.

Originally, a "Longevity and Prosperity" pine crane painting was hung there.

It was removed without a second thought.

"What’s the idea here?"

An old man playing chess grumbled impatiently.

Director Qian ignored him.

He personally went up.

Grabbed a corner of the red cloth covering the painting.

Gave it a tug.

"Woosh—"

The red cloth slid down.

The whole painting was exposed to everyone.

At that moment.

The sound of chess pieces clattering ceased.

The arguing over cards stopped.

The hum of the radio was silenced.

The entire activity center was as quiet as a grave.

All actions ceased.

All faces turned toward that wall.

An old general sitting in a corner wheelchair was staring out the window in a daze.

He had only one leg.

The other pant leg hung empty.

His head slowly, very slowly turned around.

When his gaze fell upon the wind-torn, tattered red flag in the painting.

His body shivered violently.

The hand gripping the wheelchair’s wooden armrest, covered in liver spots, clutched tightly.

Veins bulged.

"Ah..."

A deeply suppressed sound, as if squeezed from the depths of the throat.

Immediately after.

Teardrops as large as beans.

Rolled from his murky eyes.

Traced the crisscrossing wrinkles.

"My..."

"My soldiers..."

The old general looked up.

Letting out a heart-rending cry, like a wounded beast.