The night was cool as water, the lake's light like a mirror.
A fishing boat drifted by the shore of Pearl Lake, swaying with the chilly breeze, chasing the undulating waves.
Art supplies were strewn messily at the bow, vivid oil pigments splattered everywhere, making this dilapidated little boat appear even more filthy and chaotic.
The painting old man propped his cheek with one hand, beating rhythm with the other. His eyes were half-closed, while the radio played old-style opera singing, its wavering notes echoing in the clear and cold night, mingling with the sound of waves—producing a flavor all their own.
"I await only heaven's desolation, earth's end—how could the True Dragon be forced into an ant's lair…"
The painting old man hummed softly to himself, his breathing slow and deep.
Buzz…
Suddenly, the singing in the radio broke off, replaced by a crackling wash of electronic static.
"Hmm!?"
