Snowy night on the cold mountain, the ancient path is arduous.
Baili An arrived at the third gate, looking at the towering pine trees in front of the building, standing majestically, their lush branches weighed down by thick layers of Songxue, rustling in the nocturnal wind.
Under the tree, a male painter sat on a stone covered in snow, with a cup of cold tea by his feet, and a piece of Yellow Boxwood held upright on his knees, the smooth wooden surface painted with a scene of clouds and birds.
In his hand, he held a rough carving knife, delicately chiseling away.
Baili An was the last to ascend the mountain; at this moment, no other entrants were in sight at the third gate.
The painter paused his brush, and a drop of bright red paint suddenly fell from its sharp tip.
