On the day Zhang Kacha opened his studio, the street outside was crowded with onlookers, but no one was willing to step inside and try having their photo taken. Left with no choice, Zhang Kacha paid someone to take a photo as the first customer.

  Strangely enough, the very person who was the first to have their photo taken at the studio died the following night. The cause of death was simple—he fell to his death while carrying wood up the mountain and slipped off the cliff.

  As a result, Tang Town developed a very unfavorable rumor about the photography studio: that the death of the man was somehow connected to the studio and that Zhang Kacha's camera had captured the man's soul. This story spread like wildfire throughout the town, with some even ciming that Zhang Kacha was a sorcerer sent to Tang Town to collect souls, his camera filled with countless spirits. People became too afraid to step foot in the studio. The bravest would only gnce at it from a distance with fearful eyes, and some even poured a basin of dog blood at the door of the studio in the middle of the night.

  Zhang Kacha quickly left Tang Town, which had become a nightmare for him. His departure was a relief to Hu Wenjin, the old portrait artist of Tang Town. He had genuinely worried that Zhang Kacha might ruin his livelihood.

  Hu Wenjin spent several years contentedly painting portraits for the people of Tang Town. However, one morning, after getting out of bed, he colpsed and died. His death caused a moderate amount of panic in the town. With Hu Wenjin gone, who would paint portraits for the people of Tang Town? The situation became a pressing issue for the townsfolk.

  It was unclear when, but over time, an unspoken rule had developed in Tang Town: when someone died, a portrait must be left behind. Whether for the wealthy or the poor, painting the deceased, or those near death, had become an essential part of life. This made Hu Wenjin, the portrait artist, all the more significant.

  Hu Wenjin had lived a solitary life. He never married and had no apprentices. Many people in Tang Town had tried to offer their sons to him as potential apprentices, but he had always turned them down. This refusal stemmed from his selfish belief that an apprentice would eventually take his livelihood. He valued his work more than anything, even more than life itself. When painting portraits of the dead, a contented smile would appear on his face—perhaps the happiest moments of his life.

  After Hu Wenjin's death, the people of Tang Town hurriedly approached the mayor, urging him to find a new portrait artist as soon as possible. They worried that without portraits, the dead would not rest in peace, and the living would be disturbed by the unrest. The mayor, who rarely cared for the people, recognized that the situation was a significant matter for the town's well-being. Feeling that it was an opportunity to do something meaningful for the townspeople, he decided to take action. He sent his ckey and the town's security chief, Zhong Qi, to the county to bring back the fallen artist, Song Ke.

  Zhong Qi, entrusted with such an important task, arrived in the county, but instead of looking for the artist directly, he entered a brothel. Zhong Qi had longed for an opportunity to indulge himself with women from the city, and now the chance had finally come. The women in the city were different from those in Tang Town—city prostitutes were fairer, younger, and had a more enticing allure. After spending an entire day and night in the brothel and spending several silver dolrs from the mayor, Zhong Qi concluded that city women were far superior to those in Tang Town.

  Exhausted and feeling limp, as though his very muscles had been drained, Zhong Qi stumbled out of the brothel into the blinding sunlight. It was only then that he remembered the purpose of his visit to the county.

  Walking down a small street, he spotted Song Ke, pale and frail, dozing behind his art stall. Zhong Qi immediately saw the potential target and approached him. He woke Song Ke and, with a smile, said, "Business is slow, isn't it?"

  Song Ke said nothing, merely gazing at the uninvited guest with a ckluster expression. Zhong Qi continued, "I can show you a way to make money if you're interested."

  Song Ke looked at him with confusion. Zhong Qi grinned, "I'm speaking the truth. The old portrait artist from Tang Town is dead, and they need someone to repce him. If you're willing to go, you'll make more there than you ever would here with no customers."

  Song Ke finally spoke, his curiosity piqued. "Tang Town? They need a portrait artist"? Zhong Qi nodded.

  Suddenly, Song Ke’s eyes, dry from ck of interest, seemed to brighten with a renewed spark. "I'll go!" he said.

  Zhong Qi sensed a strange smell, though he dismissed it and paid it no mind.

  After finishing his meal, Zhong Qi led Song Ke to a small painting studio beside the narrow street. The shop was a small wooden building, with the storefront downstairs and the bedroom upstairs. This shop had originally belonged to the te portrait artist Hu Wenjin. After his death, with no successor, the shop was taken over by the town government. The mayor had long decided that once a new artist arrived, the shop would be handed over for his use.

  Zhong Qi opened the cedarwood door to the shop, and a strong, musty smell poured out, causing Song Ke to cough twice.

  With a ntern in hand, Zhong Qi chuckled and said, "Painter Song, this pce hasn't been lived in for a while. Just open the windows and let some fresh air in."

  "It's fine, it's fine!" Song Ke responded.

  Zhong Qi smiled politely again. "Painter Song, you've traveled a long way. You must be tired. You should get a proper rest tonight. We can discuss things tomorrow."

  Zhong Qi handed the key to the painting studio to Song Ke and quickly left, likely eager to return to the mayor and his drinking companions. The mayor had originally invited Song Ke to join them for a drink, but Song Ke had declined, expining that he never touched alcohol and that a full stomach was enough for him.

  Apart from the faint sounds coming from Emperor Alley, Tang Town had already fallen into silence. The homes and shops along the narrow street were all closed, and the stillness carried an eerie, inexplicable atmosphere. Song Ke lit an oil mp, its tiny fme illuminating the shop. He closed the shop door and securely bolted it, shutting the strange night of Tang Town outside. For a moment, he thought he heard the faint whimper of a dog, causing his heart to tighten.

  Song Ke considered opening the windows of the shop but, after a moment's thought, decided against it. He felt it was better to endure and wait until morning. The walls of the painting studio were covered with charcoal sketches of bck-and-white portraits. Each pair of eyes in those portraits seemed vivid and lively, as if they were speaking to him.

  The te artist, Hu Wenjin, had always left behind a portrait of each of his favorite works to hang on the wall. He had spent his life painting the dead, never once painting a living person. The people of Tang Town, alive, never sought him out for portraits. Song Ke, however, was unaware of this.

  The shop felt particurly eerie in the flickering light of the oil mp. Despite it being a warm early summer evening, Song Ke couldn't shake the chill he felt.

  Holding the oil mp in his hand, he climbed the creaky wooden stairs, each step groaning under his weight.

  The musty smell upstairs was heavy, though not as intense as downstairs. The space upstairs was cramped, and the tall, thin Song Ke could easily reach up and touch the ceiling's bck tiles. The small, confined room contained an old, carved bed with peeling paint, a desk and chair, and an old wardrobe. In the corner was a covered chamber pot.

  Song Ke thought the living conditions were far better than the small room he had rented in the county town. What mattered most was the peace and quiet—it was the kind of space he desired, one he could control. He set the oil mp on the desk and began to search around. He hoped to find something left behind by the previous owner, but he was disappointed to find the drawers of the desk and the wardrobe were empty.