CIATB Chapter 48 The Soul of Painting!
Chapter 48 The Soul of Painting!
The deep red brushstroke left on the canvas, like a glaring wound, instantly shattered the thick silence in the studio.
Zhang Yan's heart was pounding like a drum; he could clearly hear the sound of his blood surging through his veins.
The system's frantic warnings still echoed in his mind, but he couldn't care less about them anymore.
"There will be a punishment if you don't draw well."
Nie Qingcheng's languid yet dangerous words, carrying an undeniable provocation, lingered in his ears like a spell.
Zhang Yan took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the heat in his heart, and focused all his attention on the canvas in front of him.
He knew that now was not the time to let his mind wander.
His fingers twitched slightly, gently spreading the paint from the brush onto the palette, and then, with an almost reverent attitude, he dipped his brush in paint again.
At this moment, he unleashed the full power of his [Divine Painting] skill.
The world before her was no longer simply Nie Qingcheng, but a work of art woven from countless lines, colors, light and shadow, and structures.
Every breath she took, every tiny muscle twitch, even the subtle emotional fluctuations deep in her eyes, were magnified infinitely and clearly visible to him.
He saw the cunning and provocation in her fox-like eyes, as well as the deep-seated pride and vulnerability hidden in her bones.
He saw the faint smile on her lips, and also the insecurity revealed by her tense jawline.
The brush tip made a soft scratching sound as it moved nimbly across the canvas.
Zhang Yan was completely immersed in the world of creation, entering a state of selfless flow.
He painted not only Nie Qingcheng's appearance, but also her complex, ever-changing, contradictory yet captivating soul.
The charcoal pencil lines outlined the graceful curve of her jawline and meticulously captured the slender arc of her neck.
The colors of the oil paint were layered one on top of another, accurately reproducing the delicate luster of her skin and the soft texture of the silk shirt.
He could even use his brushstrokes to vividly depict the allure of her straight, slender legs, partially hidden beneath her shirt.
The studio was quiet, with only the soft sounds of paintbrushes rubbing against the canvas and the slight rustling of Nie Qingcheng's clothes as she adjusted her poses.
Nie Qingcheng originally just wanted to tease this little rascal and embarrass him, but when she saw Zhang Yan's extremely focused expression, she gradually gave up her playful intentions.
She looked at him.
His eyes were clear, without a trace of impure thought, as if there was nothing else in the world but her and the canvas.
His fingers are long and strong, holding the paintbrush, and every movement is full of an artist's rigor and fluidity.
The sweat on his forehead slid down his temples, but it did not affect his concentration in the slightest.
A strange feeling welled up in Nie Qingcheng's heart.
She had seen countless men go crazy for her beauty and bow down to her power.
But no one has ever looked at her with such pure eyes, or depicted her with such reverence.
She watched herself gradually emerge on the canvas, and the feeling was wonderful.
The woman in the painting looks more like her than the woman in the mirror.
That wasn't a two-dimensional portrait, but a woman with flesh and blood, a soul, and a story.
Before we knew it, two hours had passed.
The sky outside the window had completely darkened, and soft lights illuminated the studio.
Zhang Yan put down his paintbrush, rubbed his slightly sore shoulders, and let out a long breath.
A masterpiece worthy of being passed down through the ages was thus created in his hands.
In the painting, Nie Qingcheng reclines on a chaise longue, a loose white shirt hanging on her body, unable to conceal her exquisite curves.
One of her legs was slightly bent, while the other was casually straightened, and the hem of her shirt was pulled up, revealing a large expanse of snow-white skin.
Her long hair cascaded down like a waterfall, her eyes were dreamy, and a faint smile played at the corners of her lips.
What's most expressive is her eyes.
Those fox-like eyes, naturally alluring, possessed a captivating charm, yet also revealed a deep-seated aloofness and vulnerability.
The beauty mark at the corner of her eye is the finishing touch, making her seem as if she might step off the canvas at any moment and stand vividly in front of you.
Looking at his work, Zhang Yan felt an indescribable sense of satisfaction.
"Is it finished?"
Nie Qingcheng's voice sounded behind him.
Zhang Yan turned around, and Nie Qingcheng had already stepped down from the chaise lounge. Barefoot, she walked step by step toward the canvas on the soft carpet.
Her expression was calm, revealing neither joy nor anger.
Zhang Yan didn't say anything, but silently moved aside.
Nie Qingcheng walked to the canvas and her gaze fell on the painting.
She was stunned.
The woman in the painting is her. But she isn't her.
Those eyes, like hooks, were full of allure, yet they also revealed a tenderness born of being pampered—a kind of charming naiveté that she had never discovered in herself, a quality unique to a young woman.
That aloofness and vulnerability are depicted vividly, like a thin veil that he easily lifts, exposing it to the light of day.
She looked at the painting, then at Zhang Yan.
The self in the painting looks more like myself than the self in the mirror.
She felt as if she had been stripped naked, all her pretense, all her strength, all her secrets exposed in this painting.
An unprecedented, intense sense of unease overwhelmed her like a tidal wave.
Nie Qingcheng suddenly turned around, her eyes becoming extremely dangerous, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, its fur standing on end and its claws bared.
She approached Zhang Yan step by step, her beautiful fox-like eyes now resembling two poisoned knives.
"You see right through me..." Her voice was low, with a barely suppressed tremor and a panic she herself was unaware of.
She raised her hand, her fingertips lightly yet with an undeniable force, and touched Zhang Yan's chest.
"This makes me...feel very insecure."