After the feeling of falling disappeared, Uriel found himself huddled in the shadow of a square plate, his wounds bursting and his whole body aching. He stretched his limbs and ended up plunging his left hand into a bucket of dirty water. At this point he had not realized how unusual its appearance was.
The apprentice looked around. The sky was gloomy, shrouded in night. There was no sun, no stars, clouds, and no birds in the sky. He could vaguely see a few slender dividing lines, which divided the sky into strange diamond shapes. This place is unlikely to be the sewer of the "Golden Ruins".
"Edward?" he shouted. Did we cross the passage? Or did the barber accidentally fall? "what happened?"
"I didn't see him." Someone suddenly responded, "Maybe it was too broken. The smuggling ladder is not for living people. You crazy people know it and still have luck."
"Cincenna." He was unhappy to see the ghost of the psychic Della, who was floating behind him, looking extremely uneasy. "How did you get out?"
She gestured: "Up."
The apprentice dug the phylactery out of his pocket and found that its lid was missing. It seems that going through the tunnel still paid something. Although many unpleasant things happened between them, he still felt that she was excusable, and at least the crime would not lead to death. "What impact will this have?"
"It's better not to. Who knows? I am his first user." The ghost asked gloomily: "What is this place?"
"Gavash, the fallen plane."
Della's expression twisted. She stared at her apprentice in disbelief and repeated, "Gavash?!"
"We have to take care of that hourglass, or anyone could open the gates of hell."
"Your solution is to come to hell in person?"
"Oh, I've considered the pros and cons, and this is a rational decision." In fact, Uriel was infected by people's emotions, but he obviously couldn't say this frankly. He had no intention of gaining her understanding. "With the Scroll of Oath, the Black Knight will be able to find me sooner or later. The chaos in Compass Heights is proof. But since he is in Knox, it means that Gavash is safe."
Ghost Della narrowed her eyes.
"And Edward." The apprentice continued, "He is indeed a smart man, but it is difficult to protect himself in the kingdom of the dead. I will not watch him die."
Her emotions completely exploded: "He asked for it! He just wants to die. Don't you know this clearly? Do you have to go on the road with him?"
"That's right. I think it's worth it," Uriel said. "Far better than submitting a paper to the Inspiration Society. Far more than that. After all, I just want to find a place to be quiet."
"You are looking for a grave for yourself! Tell me, is there any way you can go back?"
Without waiting for a response, Della knew the answer just by looking at his expression. Her eyes widened in despair.
"I know you hate me, Uriel. I betrayed you and tried to replace you. I admit it! But I'm not doing it for those shallow things. I'm doing it for Knox!" The ghost quickly pulled out his hand in excitement. The outline shook and fell apart, "The Mystery of Souls can awaken souls and turn mysterious creatures into ghosts - look at me! This is a skill that can change the world and change Knox. Perhaps all those who cannot make progress in the career path of a psychic Future generations will be affected by my legacy. This is an unprecedented event! Do you understand?"
Uriel almost laughed. really weird. She still remembers her report, as if a gear can only bite the innate rhythm. This would not make him change his opinion of her, but it was enough to make him feel good and prove that there were still people in the world who could focus on her career. Even Daisy Weaver and Edward, the Demon Society and the Demon Hunters, in her eyes Nothing in it is the point.
"Yes." He said, "I don't understand you. When others are struggling for survival, your goal is newspaper headlines. When the real headlines die in my hands, you still dare to yell at me. I wouldn't call you vain, Della Sinsena. I understand you."
"What do you want to do?" The ghost retreated warily.
He had wanted to say this for a long time: "Let's go our separate ways. You go find your way to fame, and I'll go find Edward, or your box lid - and just be alone. What do you think?"
"You want to leave me?"
The apprentice finally smiled. "You think we are an inseparable whole? You and me? Ha!"
…
The ghost blushed, or rather became transparent. She realized that there was misleading information in her words, and she happened to have some thoughts that she couldn't express. She wanted to argue and prove her innocence, but the other party had turned around.
"I'm not this...you...?"
The tower messenger waved his hand and stepped forward without saying a word. If he did hesitate, he didn't show it at all.
he's gone. she thought. He's threatening me again. He would soon regret it, because Uriel was the kind of person who never left anyone behind, and she knew that very well. But the apprentice didn't slow down at all, and had already walked twenty yards in the blink of an eye.
Suddenly, anger welled up in his heart. Della stood there, feeling ashamed of being let down and betrayed. She insisted on not pursuing him, hoping in her heart that he would stop, but Uriel quickly disappeared from sight, no matter how hard she opened her eyes. It must be the state of my soul that blurs my vision.
"It's all my fault!" she shouted, "It's all my fault! Are you satisfied?"
No one responded.
"Okay. Okay! Go find your little friends, and I hope you meet in hell!" Della cursed, "Damn hunters. Damn demons. Bah! You think you are a person."
She didn't think the soul could cry, but her head felt heavy from the dampness. Wisps of smoke filled the air. Leaving the phylactery is equivalent to being liberated from the prison. Why worry about the distance back to the cage? I don't need it anymore.
But soon, Della began to regret it.
Gavash is not as scary as imagined. There are hellfires everywhere and undead wandering everywhere. In fact, it is very empty. It is a gray wasteland. The sky is strangely grid-shaped. Even if there is no light source, it is not completely Pitch black. There is no danger here, no undead, nothing. There is only silence. The world is like a huge and sealed "life box", full of dangers and unknowns. Needless to say, this was when she experienced the security that the small box provided.
"What the hell," she said to herself.
It was not difficult to choose a direction to move forward, but Della gradually lost her sense of direction. She didn't know how long she had walked or where she had gone. The only certainty was that she would never be able to go back the same way and catch up with the damn tower messenger. He was her only hope. He saved me, trusted me, and gave me my last refuge. Everything was my fault. Thinking of these, tears once again filled Della's sight.
"Miss, are you crying?"
Della was startled: "Who?"
"Here. Look down. Do you see it?"
Della lowered her head and saw a hollow in the dirt under her knees. She would not have noticed it if she had not been so close. There seemed to be a gray person in the cave.
The man in the cave stood up, and with the light coming from nowhere, his outline became obvious, even clearer than Della. This man's body is made of white bones. After shaking off the mud and sand in the gaps, as long as the wind blows through his ribs of different lengths, it can make a sharp whistle.
He opened his mandible: "First time we meet. What sad thing happened to you? Maybe I can help you. In this hellish place, everyone is a master of philosophy."
"You...what are you doing here?"
"Uh, collect the wind." The skeleton thought carefully, "Yes. I'm here to collect the wind. Look, this part of the sky is worth preserving."
Della couldn't understand it. "Sky?"
"The skies divided by these boundaries are different, Miss. Their edges are completely different, some are curved, some are jagged, and basically have no rules at all - but some are still very artistic, like the one above our heads. Chunks."
I met crazy people who talked nonsense in the land of the dead. "Who cares about the sky? This is Gavash!"
"Gavash. The land of the dead. Hell's Outpost. I never imagined such a sentimental land. It's so beautiful!"
Della frowned. Sentiment? beautiful? "Is there something wrong with you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm a painter, and I'm afraid you and I see things differently. I shouldn't bring this up when you're sad."
"Why did the painter come here?" she blurted.
The skeleton was surprised and stretched out his arms to show her. "We have something in common on this point. If I die and then come to Gavash, what else can I do?"
Della realized she had said something stupid. Forget it, I've said more stupid things than this, and the other person is a stranger and doesn't recognize me. She crossed her arms... Oh, he doesn't recognize me, no one will recognize me, I'm dead, but I haven't had time to leave my name in history. Della wanted to cry again.
Her remaining self-esteem kept her from shedding tears in front of strangers. "Were you a mortal when you were alive?" Della continued on the topic, hoping to get rid of distracting thoughts. "Mortal painter?"
"I just call myself myself." The skeleton said embarrassedly, "My paintings lack artistic sense and often fail to sell, but I am still practicing. After all, this is my pursuit, even in life. Look."
The skeleton dug out a painting box from the soil, as well as many sealed pockets. He counted them, fingers deftly playing with the seals.
The sadness faded away quickly. Della couldn't believe her eyes, there should be nothing in Gavash! Can the dead make paint?
She realized she was walking in a strange land. "Where did you get these things?"
"It is said to be trophies." The skeleton explained, "Not long ago, the people of the night captured the Green Man City in Oak Plains and brought back most of the city buildings. All the ironware, woodware and saddles were taken away, leaving only a few intact ones. The pens I use are of no use to them, but they are my treasures. As for the paints and canvases, I know quite a bit about the art of making them."
"What is the life of the dead like?" she couldn't help asking.
"It's very different from when they were alive. Many people are just pure corpses, or pure ghosts - there are more of these - not counting people of the night like you and me. Their daily routine is probably to lie down and eat themselves."
Della winced in disgust. "Eat their own?"
"The corpse will give birth to a soul, and the soul will slowly transform into fire. Both processes require a living body. Most likely it will be your own body. After all, there are no living people in Gavash to enjoy."
What a crazy, terrifying change. Della would never allow herself to be like this. She somewhat understood why the undead also longed for Knox. Gavash is hell, and people call it an outpost. They must have never seen it!
"Don't worry about those things." The skeleton's eye holes were filled with huge flames, indicating her mood. "Before becoming people of the night, the undead had no consciousness. Their souls were incomplete."
"The ghost has no such worries, does he?" She laughed to herself.
"Ghosts are citizens of the night." The skeleton shrugged, "It's just that ghosts are mortal souls when they are alive, and they need to be ignited to be considered residents of Gavash. But if you think about it carefully, you didn't ignite the fire during your lifetime, so why pursue it after death? ? It's a stupid thing for a ghost to burn itself. See, is that the truth?"
"What about you? Are you a citizen of the night born from bones and flesh?" Della could see the fire in his eyes.
"You may not believe it." The skeleton opened the canvas and rubbed the bones of his fingers together, looking a little confused. "I feel like I am the same person I was when I was alive. I remember my death, and the strongest evidence is that my consciousness is not an echo of my body."
He opens the canvas to reveal a landscape with warm colors. Red maple leaves, golden sycamore trees, and brown and white tree trunks twinkle under the cascading shadows. Every outline is clearly discernible, every color block is just right, and the artist undoubtedly knows what is in the painting.
Della's eyes were attracted by the picture. After marching in the long gray wasteland for too long, a beautiful and bright picture turned out to be so moving, injecting surging vitality into her soul. She could hardly look away, thinking of the woods and hills of Knox. I've seen this painting.
"The most satisfying work of my lifetime." The skeleton touched the maple leaf melancholy. "Of course, it is far from ideal. But this is the garden of my childhood. How bright and lovely it is, it never belongs to another person. Yes. I did not paint the original painting during my lifetime, but added many colors from different seasons. The painting in front of me is a complete replica of that painting, exactly the same. I still have the memory of painting that painting."
Della came back to her senses from the picture, and instinctively wanted to refute it, denounced it as an hallucination, and laid out various theories of theosophy as a basis. But as soon as she opened her mouth, she suddenly realized that she couldn't reveal the fact that she was a mysterious creature - whether the ignited fire could turn into a ghost.
When it came to the soul mysteries and the hard-written academic reports, her wisdom began to show again. "Physical memory can interfere with your judgment," Della points out. "Can you create new works and look for differences in style?"
"Oh, yes."
There were hundreds of canvases spread out before them. Most of them are landscape paintings, with a few dozen portraits, which are outstanding techniques that Della has never seen before. These works are signed "Richard Grasson".
Della knew nothing about painting, art, or even dressing herself up. However, seeing these pictures and this name, her brain suddenly discovered the true appearance of beauty. The scenery is immersive and imaginative. As for portraits, gods have eyes. They are so delicate and vivid. The same image of the same person shows different temperaments, and different images of different people have the same expression. These sitting or standing human figures seem to have souls. . She was almost moved by it.
"Actually, I prefer painting portraits." Skull continued, "But since the dean's right hand was chopped off by the lord, we no longer dare to claim to be able to paint portraits."
Della felt a sense of déjà vu. I've heard similar stories.
"Richard Grasson. Is this the name of your body in life?"
"Actually, that's who I am."
A strange resentment welled up in her, irritated by the bones' sense of identity in life. "He is long dead! You are just the fire in his bones, not him." You cannot inherit his artistic talent. However, those beautiful scenery before our eyes seemed to declare the injustice of the world. "There's no new work of yours here, is there?" the psychic asked hopefully.
The skeleton pushed its chin. "Ask me again, Miss? I only painted two portraits during my lifetime, and the others are all new." He scratched his forehead with the penholder. "Have you seen my works? I hope they are not in the stove. Well, even this is of some value. My landlord claims to take my last works and cut them into matchboxes. At least the fragments can be sold."
I don’t know what happened to the matchbox that had the fragment signed by “Richard Grasson” printed on it. Maybe it was packaged and sent to auction. Della bit her lip, unable to face the painter's self-deprecating remarks. I've seen your matchbox, she almost said. I have no obligation to let this guy get complacent.
"I would not call you vain, de la Cincena. I understand you."
"Do you recognize me, miss? Did we meet before? Or are you my descendant? My cousin has five children..."
Even if it's just to make him say the wrong thing, it's worth it. "No." Della said with a stern face, "Actually, it's all because you are a famous painter. Richard Grasson, people think you are one of the greatest painters since the times of the ancestors, and your works are They were placed in the emperor's study. Hundreds of painters imitated them, creating fakes that were many times the size of the originals."
The skeleton didn't believe it at all: "Me? This is impossible."
"Impossible?" she repeated. "What's impossible!" turned into a scream. Della felt tears filling her eyes again. "You don't know how much courage it took me." The ghost was so angry that he almost exploded. "How much courage! I just told you the truth. You don't believe me?"
"It's impossible." Richard said softly, "People don't love my paintings. I expected, I imagined that my works would be appreciated, even at the risk of having my hands chopped off." He shook his head. "It's just imagination. After all, I can't even pay the rent."
Della fell silent. What a strange thing. There was a familiar air surrounding him, and she seemed to understand. We've all had hopes and hopes that were dashed.
"I mean it. Everything."
Richard put away his pen and slowly sat on the ground. His gaze stretched as the gray wilderness stretched to the edges of the meshed sky. "They say that?" he asked sadly.
"There's no doubt about it. You're a celebrity." Much better than me.
"I won't believe it. You have no idea how cruel you are, miss. I would feel much better if it was a hoax."
Della was startled. "How could it be? You're already a historical figure. Oh, sure, you've been dead for years, but why does that matter? People die sooner or later, mortals sooner."
The skeleton looked up. "What do you think of my new work?"
Expressing her feelings again, she finally no longer had any mental barriers. "Definitely your level. A masterpiece."
"That's it. My works during my lifetime are not much different from them. Gavash is beautiful, but also very monotonous. I haven't made much progress."
"It's not your fault." Della comforted. She has felt it with him.
"Here's the problem." Richard looked at his canvas. "If people already love my work, why do they have to wait until I die to tell them!" He grabbed the skull. "They made me die, you see. I was freezing to death on the street, I couldn't even buy a box of matches, and they had my paintings printed on them!"
"Why should you care? Your style was not accepted by people at the time. Now people's eyesight has improved and they finally discovered your talent." Della said sourly. No one will ever discover my talent.
"I continue to create until I die." The skeleton shouted, "Even after death. Why should the same work be recognized after my death? Time? Vision? Unappreciated talent? No, miss, you don't understand! This is not for My art. They were just looking for someone to praise them, and they happened to choose my painting. A big factor that affected the selection was that I am a dead person! A dead person!"
Della looked at him confused.
The skeleton stared at her for a long time, then picked up a painting and asked her: "Do you think it is beautiful?"
"It's amazing," Della said sincerely.
"Actually, I am not the original artist of it. It was painted after my teacher's work when I was an apprentice. Of course, I changed a bit of hair color, lip gloss, etc. The model for the portrait is the teacher's daughter. I can't compare A father knows his children better.”
"Your changes make the work better."
"Can't you see this flaw? My skills are immature. Here! Keep your little flames open, eh?"
Della observed carefully: "But there is a spot, and it is quite clever that it appears here. Oh, I remembered that the painting collected by the emperor is also like this! Isn't this your painting style."
The skeleton looked at her desperately.
"What's the matter with you, Richard? Did I say something wrong?"
"Do you think any of my paintings are beautiful?"
Della began to think that he was being unreasonable. "This is a fact."
"The truth is, I'm not a saint. I make mistakes, I make mistakes." The skeleton knelt down and stroked the scroll. "And I - unlike you. I'm very aware of my imperfections."
"We also appreciate your imperfections. God, what else are you dissatisfied with?"
"If I were alive, I would agree with your words, dear Miss Ghost." His finger bones scratched the oil paint, leaving a beautiful scratch. Della looked at it with fascination, and with a slight stroke, it was like a shooting star passing by in the sky, what a genius idea. No one would believe that this was done casually by the author. Only Richard Grasson, only he could do this. Newcomers can always figure out the purpose of this stroke, imitate the essence of this stroke, and worship the inspiration of this stroke. Everyone says so.
"But I died. Death made me sober, letting me put aside the shackles of survival and focus on my pursuit."
"Pursue?"
"Art." The skeleton murmured, "I only need real works of art, recognized by real artists, especially works recognized by myself, rather than by the aesthetics of the times and people." He shuddered. "God, what aesthetics do most people have? What kind of aesthetics do they have! No! They like whoever is famous, and they praise whoever is powerful. These people - they are completely amateurs! They even divide I can’t tell orange and lemon yellow! Maybe they have only seen one painting in their lives and heard of one painter...but you believe them and not me?"
Della didn’t understand: “If most people don’t recognize it, why should the work be called a work of art? You lack confidence.”
"But during my lifetime, most people didn't recognize my works!"
A strange thought ran through Tianling. The psychic stayed where he was, stunned and speechless. She suddenly understood his pain.
"I will never be able to create more beautiful paintings," the painter wailed, "because my defective products are the most beautiful. People will only paint according to them, and I no longer know what the art I pursue looks like."
Flames flowed from his eye sockets, forming two blazing rivers of sparks. The flames ignited the oil paint and swallowed up the pictures all over the floor in the blink of an eye. The beautiful scenery and beauty were all scorched and shattered in the fire, turning into handfuls of ashes.
"What are you doing!" Della felt distressed, "If you are not satisfied with these paintings, give them to me. People other than Gavash will fight for them."
"They won't buy it either!" The skeleton glared at her, "They know that I have died long ago, and they know that I can't have new works! In people's eyes, even my works... are just imitations. After I die, It’s not me anymore.”
"But you are who you are." She was convinced of this.
"That's the problem," Richard Grasson said sadly, "because the person I was was going to die, and the person I am now is not going to die a second time. So now, these new games are just garbage."
Della gritted her teeth. She felt that the other person was not talking about his paintings, but the people who had praised him, which undoubtedly included her.
"In the final analysis, people have never given me recognition for the beauty of my works, but I can't live without people's praise." Richard fiddled with the ashes, "Just paint two strokes, and future generations may also like it. And then praise everything connected with it for this love...For sooner or later the eyes of men will be able to appreciate everything. Oh, sooner or later!"
He shook his head and never looked at them again. "Let's go, miss. You seem to like hearing compliments, so here's your chance. Look, you're dead now, aren't you? If you ask me, if you wait here for hundreds of years, someone will bring new news. It’s for you. Then you’ll know how popular you are.”
Della felt humiliated: "Wait for hundreds of years?"
"This is a matter of luck. Maybe it will be in advance, but it is never possible to mention you during your lifetime. People will love you, praise you, and sing your praises, but they will not help you. Because the praise of the world belongs to them, and only pursuit will belong to them. you."
Della opened her eyes wide and watched the painter get up from the rest. Art passed through his bones and merged into this gray land of death.
Richard Grasson's bones departed with sorrow, leaving her to these coveted fragments of fame and the eternal loneliness of the land of the dead.
