After two years living in terror, thirty-three-year-old Zhao Ji still had no offspring besides the Crown Prince. One day, Zhao Lingrang brought a Taoist priest from Mount Mao, who said after examining the palace’s feng shui that the northeast corner—the Gen position—was too low in elevation, hindering progeny. Zhao Ji then raised the palace’s northeast corner, constructing a beautifully shaped hill.

Strangely enough, after this hill was built, the inner palace repeatedly received joyful news. Prince after prince came into the world, each healthy, lively, and adorable. With this, Zhao Ji firmly believed the “Four Seasons Paintings” were merely deceptive nonsense, becoming increasingly devoted to Taoist arts.

The lengthy city wall reconstruction project was also gradually completed. Time flew by, and Zhao Ji became increasingly obsessed with grand construction projects. The Flower and Stone Network made life unbearable for the people, yet he completely ignored worldly affairs, indulging purely in pleasure.

Until the Jin army moved south with troops approaching Bianjing, the Jin generals saw the uniform, orderly walls and happily positioned cannons at the corners, attacking along the sides. With the walls now straight, a single cannon could see far, easily destroying the newly built walls. The entire Song capital was like a young woman whose clothes had been easily torn away, no longer able to resist the invasion of Jin cavalry.

Zhao Ji stood hesitantly in the cold wind, his heart in chaos. Within the palace, everything in sight remained intoxicatingly beautiful, yet the distant rumble of artillery could be faintly heard. Though all he could see was heart-stirring splendor, he felt as if he had fallen into the realm of Asuras.

In his hand he held the rolled “Treading in Snow” painting. Just a few days ago when the Jin army besieged the city, he had thought of the “Four Seasons Paintings,” but when he found “Falling Leaves,” he saw only a snow-white blank paper.

He had abdicated two years ago, passing the throne to the Crown Prince. Even abandoning the supreme imperial position couldn’t salvage the defeat.

This time, would they take his country? The palace was now in complete chaos. Palace maids and eunuchs faced the end times, rushing out the palace gates despite guards’ attempts to stop them. Initially guards brandished swords threateningly and killed some, but seeing this, Zhao Ji couldn’t bear it and waved for the guards to let them pass. Instantly, the palace fell into disorder. The once magnificent halls seemed to become man-eating monsters, making people compete to flee outside.

Zhao Ji painfully watched a pot of Sichuan red peonies knocked over and ignored. He finally couldn’t help but step forward to personally right it, then brush away the dust covering the petals. He stared obsessively at the blooming flowers. Artillery sounds, screaming—everything seemed to drift away from him, leaving his heart in complete tranquility.

The world cursed him as a foolish ruler addicted to pleasure, but… but… his hands stroking the petals couldn’t help trembling. Deep in his bones, he was merely an idle prince who enjoyed writing poetry, painting, planting flowers, and tending gardens.

Suddenly, what seemed like a sigh came from the distance. Zhao Ji looked toward the sound, vaguely catching sight of an extremely familiar red dragon among the clamoring crowd, but it vanished in a blink.

Was it him? Had he come to reclaim “Falling Leaves”?

“Retired Emperor, please take refuge in Yanfu Palace!” A guard stepped forward, speaking quietly. Zhao Ji looked longingly at the palace where he had grown up, choked with emotion beyond words.

“All night the west wind shattered the door, desolate in the lonely lodge with one dim lamp. Looking back toward home three thousand li away, my gaze ends at the southern mountains with no wild geese flying.”

Zhao Ji had never imagined in his lifetime that he would become a prisoner.

He had been an emperor of the Nine-Five Supreme position! Yet now he had endured nine years of imprisonment, suffering his remaining days in Wuguo City at the northernmost border.

Zhao Ji raised his hand to look at the full moon in the sky. Today was the fifteenth of the first lunar month—the Lantern Festival. When he reigned, every Lantern Festival featured all-night lantern viewing on the full moon night. Throughout Bianjing, lanterns burned all night without extinguishing. From the palace’s main gate, colorful decorations formed mountain towers, with colorful lanterns filling courtyards and candlelight bright as day, stretching endlessly in spectacular fashion. Oh yes, they would also burn a cartload of agarwood, and finally fireworks shooting skyward…

In a trance, he seemed to still smell that intoxicating agarwood fragrance, still see brilliant fireworks trailing gorgeous traces across the night sky…

Zhao Ji pulled tight his only thin autumn garment. During nine years of northern imprisonment, inadequate food and clothing were common. Many of his sons had starved to death. He closed his eyes as bitter tears fell tragically. He couldn’t bear to think of it, yet his sons’ images—sallow, emaciated, moaning in pain—still appeared before his eyes.

Slowly unrolling the “Treading in Snow” painting in his hands, finally only this painting remained from the “Four Seasons Paintings.” The Jin people had seized all his possessions, only leaving this behind. Perhaps because the painted image had become unclear, those Jin people who didn’t understand Central Plains culture thought it was just scribbling.

Suddenly, his heart stirred. Zhao Ji suddenly sensed something, raising his head. The first thing he saw was that lifelike red dragon amid the falling snow.

“You… you’ve finally come.” Zhao Ji looked at the boss’s still-young face with mixed feelings. He had aged, gray at the temples, withered like a ruined man—where was the spirited young man who once rode horses through the imperial city? Yet the other remained as young as when they first met over thirty years ago.

“Yes, I’ve come to reclaim this ‘Treading in Snow’ painting.” The boss smiled faintly, as if he had waited a long time.

“Why me? Why me!” Zhao Ji felt his chest tight with tangled emotions. During nine years of imprisonment he had always wanted to ask this question. “Why did the ‘Four Seasons Paintings’ choose me?”

The boss’s lips curved in a mocking smile as he said coolly: “Speaking of it, it’s quite laughable. This dynasty was very peculiar. It possessed prosperity worthy of admiration and culture that later generations couldn’t match, yet suffered from conservatism, accumulated poverty and weakness, repeatedly pressured by other peoples. Though there were many court disputes, it was remarkably clean compared to previous dynasties—even scholar-officials could criticize contemporary politics without persecution. Technologically it was increasingly amazing—movable type printing, gunpowder, the compass—these three inventions will surely change the future.”

The boss paused. In his usually indifferent gaze, emotions rarely seen appeared—lamentation, regret, and anger.

“But… printing technology that could spread culture was used to print Taoist scriptures, gunpowder that could kill enemies was made into recreational fireworks, and the compass that could enable maritime exploration was used for feng shui…” The boss’s words were like blades, cutting into Zhao Ji’s heart one by one. He knelt painfully in the snow, knowing he had destroyed his ancestors’ legacy and was a sinner for all eternity.

He actually knew why only “Spring Excursion” among the Four Seasons paintings hadn’t faded—because before age twenty, he had lived without deviating from his original heart. But after ascending the throne, he was only a good emperor for a year and a half before being corrupted by absolute power and wealth.

If given another chance to start over, what would he do? Would he strive to become a wise ruler? If his imperial brother hadn’t died, if he remained a proper idle prince, would the Great Song have flourished like the rising sun?

Zhao Ji felt snowflakes landing on his face, melting into tiny droplets that slowly slid down his cheeks before falling to the snowy ground, becoming crystalline ice drops.

How beautiful… The snow filled the sky, fine dense snowflakes adorning the world in silver white, like a pure and graceful lady sitting properly and elegantly. If he had a brush in hand, he would definitely paint this scene, rather than wanting those endless governmental affairs and court entanglements…

How laughable, how laughable—facing death, what he thought of in his heart were still these powerless things. Most laughable was that this was precisely what he would pursue with his entire life—his so-called ideals.

He never wanted to become an emperor wielding great power. Human suffering comes from pursuing the wrong things.

Seeing Zhao Ji’s confused expression, the boss said no more.

Original heart—exactly how many people could maintain their original heart amid infinite power and wealth? Never mind Zhao Ji—even that Zhao Lingrang had gradually betrayed his original heart through time’s grinding.

The boss sighed. Wasn’t he the same? Could he say his own original heart hadn’t deviated?

“In your next life, just be a simple painter…” The boss withdrew the “Treading in Snow” painting from Zhao Ji’s hands. Zhao Ji felt extremely reluctant, using all his strength to tighten his grip, yet still couldn’t hold onto the scroll. He watched helplessly as it flowed from his hands like water, the white paper as pure as the snow on the ground.

Zhao Ji slowly closed his eyes. He knew that this time, what the “Four Seasons Paintings” took away was his life…

The story ended amid falling snow. Though the boss had finished speaking long ago, the doctor still found it incredible—that painter was actually Song Emperor Huizong Zhao Ji reincarnated? He knew the Mute House’s customers were no ordinary people! But that arrogant kid was actually the Nine-Five Supreme Emperor!

“The Northern Song’s fall wasn’t entirely his fault. His imperial brother did very well because Song Zhezong ascended the throne before age ten, receiving education entirely arranged for an heir. But Zhao Ji was born destined to be an idle prince. The Song Dynasty was extremely wary of the imperial clan—clan members could travel at most to suburban imperial tombs for worship, forbidden from leaving the capital for life or participating in court affairs…” the boss said coolly, remembering that Zhao Lingrang was actually quite talented, but constrained by clan traditions, unable to display his abilities, only finding solace in landscape painting and wine.

The doctor felt deeply moved, not knowing what to say, when he saw the painter emerge from the inner room, followed by the curator with his cane.

“You came out early today.” The boss was somewhat puzzled.

“Mm, finished painting, so naturally came out early.” The painter pursed his lips. Always arrogant, this was unusually polite for him toward the boss.

The doctor, not good at reading expressions, immediately asked curiously upon hearing it was finished: “Can I see it?”

At the doctor’s familiarity, the painter’s mouth twitched. Though quite unwilling, he still considered the boss’s face and carefully took the painting from his tube, cautiously unrolling it on the counter. “Treading in Snow” was actually the same scene as “Spring Excursion,” differing only in season. The painting was eighty centimeters long, depicting magnificent mountains and travelers returning through snow within its dimensions. The image showed vast space where water met sky, green mountains with white snow, shimmering lake water, a traveler on horseback treading through snow, snowflakes dancing—a crystalline white scene of breathtaking beauty. The landscape was heavily colored in blue-white, mountain bases used clay gold, tree branches on mountains directly painted with ochre for trunks, snow accumulated among leaves painted with heavy settling in horizontal dots, large trees mostly outlined, pine trees didn’t detail needles but directly used bitter green heavy dots, figures formed with powder dots then heavy colors added above, distinguishing clothing folds.

The doctor had always felt traditional Chinese landscape painting couldn’t compare to Western oil painting’s realism, but looking carefully, he discovered this painting truly deserved the evaluation “containing a thousand li of interest within inches”—displaying scenery of thousand-li rivers and mountains within an inch-sized scroll.

The doctor nodded repeatedly. Though unable to articulate specifics, he instinctively asked: “Is this painting for sale? How much?” In his concept, painters naturally painted to sell—otherwise why paint?

The curator listening nearby was about to bristle with anger. He wanted to make an offer too! But this was painted one brushstroke per day—even having buying intentions seemed like desecration! That painter looked arrogant, definitely someone with high self-regard. The doctor’s words would only offend him!

Unexpectedly, upon hearing this, the painter immediately said: “For sale.” Then gestured a number with his hand. Hearing this, the doctor gasped: “Too expensive. Could you lower it a bit?” For his salary class, it was truly an astronomical figure.

The curator anxiously gestured, meaning he could pay that amount. Before he could speak, the painter had already said coolly: “Cannot lower it.” While speaking, he slowly tore up the painting.

The curator’s eyes nearly popped out. Unable to rescue it in time, he regretfully beat his chest. Heavens! Even without heart disease, they’d give him one! This painting was absolutely worth his asking price! No one in the world knew what the other three “Four Seasons Paintings” looked like—this copy was absolutely precious!

The doctor watched in amazement as the painter bit by bit destroyed the painting he’d worked on for years, sighing helplessly: “I was just casually haggling! Why did you tear it up?”

“Nothing much. I believe this painting is worth this price, but you haggled, showing that in your heart this painting isn’t good enough. If something isn’t good enough, why keep it? I’ll just work harder on the next one.” The painter proudly lifted his chin, threw the destroyed scroll into the nearby stove, picked up his painting tube and left gracefully.

The doctor was speechless, then got thoroughly scolded by the recovered curator. Only then did he realize the world’s most difficult people to serve were artists—you never knew which word would offend them, their brain waves simply weren’t on the same frequency!

After finally sending the curator away, the doctor slumped dejectedly in his chair, not wanting to move. The boss smiled: “Don’t mind it. In this life, he hasn’t hidden his original heart, living freely and contentedly as he pleases.”

“I don’t mind at all!” the doctor huffed. That painter was definitely a perfectionist who had long wanted to destroy that painting, just finding an excuse. “Whatever his personality, it’s all strange. No wonder I found him disagreeable even then!” He naturally understood that in the story, the twelve-year-old Le’er who died young should be Fu Su reincarnated.

“That’s just one of your reincarnations—you have no memory of it.” The boss smiled.

“Hmph, who says so? Maybe I do?” the doctor protested.

“Oh? So you remember having a romance with a man?” the boss casually dropped a bombshell.

“What?” Hearing this, the doctor was thunderstruck, nearly falling from his chair.

“Hehe, that’s another story…”