Afternoon sunlight warmed the tiled roofs of the Kamisato Estate. Wind chimes rang lightly in the breeze, petals drifting into still ponds, rippling the water in gentle circles.
Ji Bai had just finished sketching when footsteps approached.
"Mr. Ji Bai," a servant said respectfully at the door, "Lady Ayaka requests your presence in the rear garden."
Ji Bai set down his brush and followed without hesitation.
Past layered corridors and shaded walkways, they arrived at a rarely opened courtyard. The air inside carried the distinct scent of aged ink and dried scrolls.
Kamisato Ayaka was already waiting, dressed in light, informal clothing. Her expression was warm, but solemn.
"This room," she began softly, "was created by my late father. It houses ancient paintings and scrolls—some of unknown origin. Among them, one is said to be a relic from the era of the Raiden Shogun."
Ji Bai's heart stirred. His footsteps slowed as he entered.
Inside, the room was dim but peaceful. Paintings lined the walls—some ethereal and light, others bold and blood-like in tone. In the center hung a sealed scroll, protected by lacquered wood and soft velvet.
Above it was a plaque inscribed with two characters:
"Ink Archive."
"This one," Ayaka said, pointing to the central scroll, "no one dares touch. Elders say it contains lingering divine intent. During storms, it's been known to hum faintly."
Ji Bai stepped forward—and instantly felt the resonance in his chest. The familiar pull of thunder stirred inside him.
"May I… see it?" he asked.
Ayaka nodded, her tone sincere. "If what Lady Miko said is true—if you are the inheritor—then perhaps this scroll has been waiting for you."
Ji Bai lifted the protective cover and gently unfurled the scroll.
Immediately, a wave of ancient pressure surged out.
Within the painting, a storm raged. Bolts of lightning tore through the heavens, surrounding a lone figure in the center—brush in hand, storm behind him, silence before him.
"…It's him again," Ji Bai murmured.The figure resembled the one from his dreams—The Painter of Storms.
Then, from deep within his mind, a whisper rose:
"This painting awaits completion—only the heir may finish the stroke."
His hand clenched around the brush without thinking. A force, not entirely his own, was guiding his fingers.
"I think… I need to finish it," he said, voice low.
Ayaka watched him quietly, then nodded. "If you're willing, I'll stand with you."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.Inside, the ancient painting stirred—awaiting the brushstroke that would awaken what lay sealed within.