Unconsciously fiddling with Bu Zhou's crystal, casually flicking it between his fingers, Yang Qing peered at the enigmatic painting as Bu Zhou's words replayed in his mind.
"That painting's spirit has taken quite an interest in you."
"A bad interest or a good one?"
"It's not a dangerous one."
"Whatever it is you're investigating, it wouldn't hurt to ask it. Who knows, I have this inkling that your interests may align."
"Aligning interests, huh," Yang Qing murmured thoughtfully, his gaze deepening as the painting's lively images reflected in his eyes.
Those who couldn't cultivate often had intuition. While it could sometimes prove invaluable—enough to save someone from doom—it was just as often unreliable. At its root, intuition was the distilled essence of experience.
