Jayson Green still remembered a line from his school days—

"Skilled men die by their skill."

He never really got it back then. Why would talent lead to death?

Now he understood.

A master woodcarver, killed by his own carving falling off a shelf and smashing his head in. Yeah, that counted. Died by what he did best.

But when his breath stopped, what he felt wasn’t fear or pain—it was relief.

He’d poured his life into his craft, reached the top, but none of it gave him anything worth holding on to.

His wife fell gravely ill—and he couldn’t afford treatment. She died.

His only son grew up hanging out with lowlifes, loafing around, always asking for money, stealing from home, tossing antiques for crumbs, getting locked up like it was no big deal.

Just days before his death, the bastard punched him for not coughing up cash. Called him names no father deserves.

Jayson knew then—his life was a damned mess. A joke with no punchline.

So yeah, maybe dying was his one way out.

…

Minghong Prefecture. Changting Town.

A thunderclap shattered the sky. The ancient tree at the town’s center—some nine centuries old—was split and charred by a bolt of lightning. The downpour that had lasted three whole days finally stopped.

No one remembered rain falling this hard in Changting before.

At the edge of Qingyun Lane, a small, plain shop sat half-hidden in shadow. Its sign, faded and worn, had four characters:

Changqing Painting Studio.

Run-down place. Crappy spot. A tiny courtyard sat out back, and from the window of the rear room, a figure looked out.

"Finally stopped," the man muttered.

He was middle-aged, stubbled, haggard, looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Jayson Green couldn’t believe it himself—one minute, a wooden statue killed him, the next, he woke up in a new world, in someone else’s body.

Took him a while to process.

Sure, he’d read those transmigration stories before—who hadn’t? Usually, the new guy got all the old memories handed to him.

But not him. Nothing. Zip.

Only thing he knew—the original Jayson Green in this world coughed blood and died. Probably stressed himself into the grave.

Since his arrival, it hadn't stopped raining. Not once.

He searched every corner of the house—no food. Found a bit of silver, but silver couldn’t be eaten, and with no place open, he couldn’t buy a damn thing.

So he starved. Three straight days.

He almost laughed. What a joke. Just crossed into another world, and he might drop dead again from hunger before doing anything else.Luckily, the rain finally stopped today. Jayson Green could finally get out and find something to eat.

But those three days stuck inside weren’t wasted. He’d dug up a pile of notes left by the original Jayson Green and pieced together a rough understanding of this strange world.

Here, martial path ruled all—but the way people cultivated here caught Jayson off guard.

Warriors achieved breakthroughs through painting—one could watch a painting of a raging bull smashing into a mountain and suddenly grasp a technique like “Crushing Mountain Force,” gaining insane strength, enough to carry a mountain barehanded.

Another might see a painting of a moonlit blue blade and comprehend the legendary “Cold Moon Blade Manual,” known for slaying otherworldly beings.

That’s why painters, or rather, Paint Masters here were revered. To qualify, you had to connect with the spirit of heaven and earth the moment your brush touched paper. That connection, your spirit, determined the power of your work.

A true Paint Master could subdue the world with a single painting, rewrite the heavens with one stroke—wielding powers beyond imagination.

And to become one? One in a million had the gift.

The original Jayson Green did have the talent from a young age. He could sense spirit with the brush. His dream had always been to rise to the level of a Saint Painter, standing at the peak of the world.

But dreams didn't feed you.

He had some skill, sure. But not enough spirit. Like wielding a brush stick with no bristles.

Years of drawing had achieved nothing. In his thirties, his family's wealth had dried up. Now he scraped by running a shabby little art house.

His only son, Arthur Green, had run off over three years ago. From the few letters that came, Jayson gathered the boy was now training at some sect called Daoshan Ancient Grounds.

But his paintings? No one bought them. They were too weak—no enlightenment could be drawn from them. What use was a painting people couldn’t learn from?

The studio barely stayed afloat, living off the money Arthur sent monthly. Pathetic.

Jayson flipped through the paintings in the studio. They weren’t good, honestly.

Especially the beasts—poorly shaped, lifeless, lacking detail. In this world, a Paint Master couldn’t paint what he hadn't seen personally. But someone like Jayson, weak as a bean sprout, had no way to go study beasts up close.

Unlike the big factions. They sent warriors to capture living beasts just for their artists to observe.

When dawn broke, golden sunlight spilling over Changting Town, Jayson grabbed the little silver he had left and rushed out the door.

He was starving.

Any longer and he really might've starved to death—again."Hey, Master Green! Where you rushing off to?" someone called as soon as Jayson Green stepped onto the street.

But Jayson didn’t know the guy, didn’t even glance his way. He just kept moving, scanning the town for somewhere to eat.

The man scratched his head awkwardly when he got ignored, but didn’t seem to mind much. Though Jayson Green was a lousy painter, he still held the title of a Painting Master. Who knew? Maybe one day he’d get lucky and draw something that changed his fate.

Everyone remembered that one time when Jayson supposedly painted a piece that helped a noble brat reach the Post-Heaven stage from Mortal Realm. He rode that story for years, bragged about it to anyone who’d listen.

As he passed another man on the street, the fellow greeted him, “Master Green, what a surprise meeting you here! Had breakfast yet?”

Jayson squinted. “Huh? How'd you know my painting helped someone reach Post-Heaven?”

Even a babbling old granny would be speechless compared to him.

Men kept calling out to him, and Jayson either ignored them or gave a quick nod as he kept searching. Took him fifteen minutes, but finally, he spotted a food stall.

It was busy, lots of folks eating breakfast, and the smell made his stomach growl even louder.

He didn’t hesitate—plopped down on a bench and shouted to the vendor, “Boss, some food! Anything works, just quick!”

The vendor, a plain, honest middle-aged man, stared at him in surprise. “Huh? Master Green?!”

The great Painting Master actually eating at his shabby stall? Jayson usually acted high and mighty, only dined at fancy places like Jin Hong House. What brought him here today?

Even the nearby diners looked up, curious.

Jayson saw the vendor zoning out and urged, “Come on, man, hurry up. I’m starving.”

“Oh! Right!” The vendor snapped back and rushed to serve him some breakfast—just some congee, veggies, and a bit of fried bread.

Jayson chowed down like a wild beast. After three days without food, this plain meal was the best thing he’d tasted in both his lives.

Just then, a voice called out, “Master Green! You’re actually here. Saved me a trip to your place. Got a letter for you.”

Jayson looked up to see a man in purple robes walking over with a giant box on his back. The man rummaged inside and pulled out a letter, handing it to Jayson.

With a mouth full of fried bread and greasy fingers, Jayson grabbed the envelope. His eyes locked on the name—Arthur Green.

That useless son of his?