Of this son, Su Mingyuan knew almost nothing. In the journals his body’s previous owner had left behind, filled with obsessive screeds on the art of painting, the boy was barely a footnote. He knew only the name—Su Zian. It was a name that spoke volumes of the original host’s single-minded ambition to become a Ink Sovereign. "My thanks," Su Mingyuan said to the middle-aged man in the purple uniform. The man looked at him, his surprise evident. Since when had Su Mingyuan become so polite? He was just a minor post officer, but today, this particular painter seemed… different. "You are too kind, Painter Su," the purple-clad officer replied quickly, before scurrying off to continue his deliveries. Su Mingyuan tore open the envelope. Inside lay a single sheet of paper and a banknote. He unfolded the letter and began to read. The message was brief, almost identical to the handful of others he had found back at the house. Father, I am well in the Azure Summit Sect. Here is this month's allowance. I completed a sect mission and received a reward from the elder, so I have sent an extra twenty taels of silver. Please be frugal with it. I am not there to look after you, so take care of yourself. Do not worry for me. Su Mingyuan’s gaze fell upon the banknote, a crisp note for seventy taels of silver. A note like this could be exchanged for coin at any bank in town. Though he was still unfamiliar with the local economy, he knew seventy taels was no small sum. For an ordinary family, it would be a fortune. But for the man he now was—a man accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, a painter who required vast quantities of precious inks and papers—it was a pittance. The original host’s journal was filled with complaints, calling his son a bastard who sent only a pittance each month. He had even written to ask for more, but Su Zian never sent extra funds on demand. And despite Su Zian’s faithful monthly letters, the original Su Mingyuan hadn’t sent a reply in nearly a year. "What a complete bastard," Su Mingyuan muttered, clutching the letter. He would have wept with joy if his own son had been a tenth as dutiful as this one. What was that saying? A man dying of thirst next to another who is drowning. To be blessed with such a good child and not know enough to cherish him. Truly the work of a beast. Su Mingyuan knew, with a sinking certainty, that his son must have scraped this money from his own meager allowance. As a cultivator, the resources provided by the sect were meant for one’s own training. Su Zian could barely have enough for himself, yet he still sent money home to support a father who was, by all accounts, a monster. He took a deep breath, the silver note feeling heavy in his hand, a knot of discomfort tightening in his gut. Su Zian was not his son, not by blood. But by inheriting this body, he had also inherited this filial devotion, and the feeling was a complicated one. In his past life, he would have laughed for three days straight upon receiving such a gift from a devoted son. But now, accepting this money filled him with an overwhelming sense of guilt. He didn't know the details of Su Zian's life, but he could imagine it. An ordinary disciple with no notable talent or connections, living in a great sect like Cangxuan Mountain—how easy could it possibly be? And yet, the boy squeezed what he could from his cultivation funds to support his father. "Damn it all," Su Mingyuan slammed a hand on the table. "In my past life, I was vexed by a son who wasn't filial enough. In this one, I'm tormented by a son who's too filial!" He had lost his appetite, though he wasn’t quite full. "How much do I owe you?" he asked the stall owner. "Eight copper coins," the man said, a little unnerved by his customer’s sudden foul mood. Su Mingyuan fumbled with his money pouch, pulled out the smallest silver ingot he had, and tossed it onto the counter. It was about one tael, he estimated. "So much? Painter Su, one moment," the stall owner said, turning away. He bustled about for a moment before returning with the change: nine qian in smaller silver pieces and ninety-two copper coins. Only then did it click for Su Mingyuan. One tael of silver was worth a thousand copper coins. The seventy taels from Su Zian was an immense sum. From the original host’s journals, filled with records of indulgent spending, he had assumed silver wasn’t worth very much. The reality was that the man had just been a profligate fool. After finishing his meal, Su Mingyuan decided to walk through the town and get a better look at this new world. He couldn't be like the original host, living a life of idle indulgence, chasing an impossible dream while leeching off his son. With a son like that, Su Mingyuan felt a genuine heartache. The town, though he thought of it as such, was enormous. He walked for over two hours and only managed to cross a few squares. Many people he passed seemed to know him, greeting him with a nod or a word. He, unfortunately, recognized none of them, and no memories surfaced to help. Luckily, the original Su Mingyuan had been an aloof man with few friends. It made the encounters easier to navigate. "Painter Su!" a voice called out as he passed a shop in Baiyu Square. A short, pudgy old man emerged, smiling and clasping his hands together. "Your son’s money should have arrived today, yes? Come in, come in! I have a new shipment of the finest Flowing Cloud plain paper. It's perfect for painting, just the thing for you!" Su Mingyuan glanced at the shop’s sign. It was a stationer’s, a scholar's studio. It seemed his predecessor had been a frequent customer. He stepped inside, his curiosity piqued. The shelves were lined with brushes, ink sticks, paper, and inkstones, all of which looked exquisite, though he couldn't see anything particularly special about them. "How much for a sheet of this paper?" he asked. "Heh heh," the chubby shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed into gleeful slits. "This Flowing Cloud plain paper is a rare find. You’ve always wanted it, and now it’s here. You should buy a good amount, Painter Su. For a regular customer like you, I'll give you a discount. Three taels of silver per sheet. How does that sound?" Su Mingyuan nearly choked. "Three taels of silver," he said, stunned, "for a single sheet of paper?" "Yes, Painter Su. You're a regular. For anyone else, it would be three taels and five qian," the shopkeeper replied, looking at him with some confusion. He sensed that Su Mingyuan was different today. In the past, the man would have been salivating at the sight of Flowing Cloud plain paper. He certainly wouldn't have balked at a mere three taels. What was wrong with him? Su Mingyuan stared at the paper for a long moment without speaking. Now he understood. Now he knew exactly how the original Su Mingyuan had squandered a family fortune. Becoming a painter was a ruinously expensive pursuit. The initial investment alone was staggering. "My apologies, I just remembered I left soup cooking on the fire at home!" Su Mingyuan said hastily, beating a swift retreat. He couldn't afford it. He couldn't even dream of affording it. Painting was a money pit. The chubby shopkeeper was left momentarily speechless. By the time he recovered, Su Mingyuan had vanished. It was then that Su Mingyuan realized something else. In all his walking, across seven or eight market squares, he hadn't seen a single shop selling carved wooden items or similar handicrafts. If he were to sell wood carvings, would there be a market for them? The more he considered it, the more plausible it seemed. He had to try, at least to earn enough to support himself. How could he continue to rely on his son for the rest of his life? The thought was unbearable. His mind made up, Su Mingyuan turned and headed straight for a blacksmith’s shop he had passed earlier. If he was going to carve, he would first need a proper set of knives.

Chapter 2: The Son You Forgot