C48 Pressure

Beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead. The air around him seemed to solidify, rendering him nearly immobile.

The sweat slid down, converging at the tip of his nose. It transformed into a glistening droplet, growing larger with each passing second.

Ni Huibo thought he heard a faint sound as the droplet silently fell to the ground, scattering upon impact.

In that moment, the oppressive atmosphere around him receded like a withdrawing tide. He felt a sudden release in tension, quickly steadying himself to prevent a fall.

Taking two deep breaths to compose himself, Ni Huibo's face was etched with astonishment as he regarded the amiable old mayor, his words caught in his throat.

"It's still too early to discuss these matters with you. I've asked you here to write a few more characters," the old mayor said, stroking his grizzled beard with a serene expression, seemingly oblivious to the recent tension and Ni Huibo's disconcerted state.

With a deep breath, Ni Huibo bowed respectfully and approached the table. He observed the pristine white paper and the dense ink within the inkstone. "What would you like me to write?" he inquired.

"If one person guards the pass, ten thousand cannot break through," the old mayor replied, his smile warm as he cast a meaningful glance at a calligraphy piece in the corner.

"Understood," Ni Huibo acknowledged, without further contemplation. He picked up the brush from the desk and dipped it lightly into the ink.

In that instant, his mind entered a state of tranquility. The earlier sense of suffocation vanished, along with the presence of the mayor; only the blank paper before him remained.

An aura of determination emanated from within him, fearless as a moth to flame, somber as a warrior on the battlefield, evoking a sense of melancholy.

The mayor stepped back quietly, his gaze filled with admiration.

Ni Huibo commenced his writing, his strokes imbued with the vigor of battle.

A drop of ink, unable to resist the force, flew out and landed on the mayor's white garment. A protective layer seemed to momentarily repel it, but Ni Huibo's growing energy seemed to encourage the ink, and it finally marked the fabric. A single black spot now adorned the otherwise immaculate white cloth.

The old mayor's smile deepened. He gave a cursory glance at the black dot before returning his gaze to Ni Huibo, seemingly unconcerned.

He lifted his brush and wrote until he was finished—a fluid, uninterrupted motion.

"Mayor, I have finished writing."

Ni Huibo bowed slightly, then rested the brush on the inkstone. In that moment, he seemed deflated, his earlier confidence now appearing illusory.

"Exquisite calligraphy!" the old mayor exclaimed as he approached the table to admire the bold characters. His eyes sparkled with delight, much like a pauper who had stumbled upon a treasure.

He picked up the calligraphy with great care, studying it intently before remarking, "This isn't in the prime minister's style. Your mastery in this field is truly remarkable—I must admit, it surpasses my own."

"You're too kind," Ni Huibo replied, preparing to bow once more, but an unseen force gently lifted him.

"I'm not bound by such worldly formalities. You needn't be so courteous with me in the future."

"But the book says..."

"Do my words carry less weight than those of a mere book?" the old mayor interjected, his widening eyes effectively silencing Ni Huibo. Pleased with the young man's deference, he nodded contentedly and resumed his admiration of the calligraphy.

After a moment, he seemed to notice something amiss and placed the calligraphy back on the table.

"Your calligraphy appears to lack something."

"Please, enlighten me," Ni Huibo requested.

The old mayor stroked his beard and gestured, summoning the sheet of paper from the corner to float over.

"The aura in this calligraphy isn't right, but your piece is deficient in vigor," he observed.

With a flick of his finger, the calligraphy sailed in front of Ni Huibo.

"When you were writing earlier, your aura was remarkable. Now, the spirit captured on this paper is barely a fraction of what it was initially. It has form and meaning, but lacks vitality."

He shook his head, a hint of disappointment in his gesture. Grasping the inkstone, he began to grind the ink once more.

"Write another piece."

"Yes."

"This piece isn't satisfactory. Write another."

"Yes."

"Infuse it with your spirit! Write another piece with your full vigor!"

"Yes."

Inside the cabin, the sunlight on the table slowly spread and elongated, eventually reaching the wall.

The stack of papers in the corner grew taller, the inkstone was worn down repeatedly, and even the neatly arranged, soft brushes started to look a bit disheveled.

"Mayor, I just can't write anymore."

Ni Huibo looked at his trembling right hand and spoke with a hint of frustration.

The old mayor's face retained its usual kind smile, warm like a spring breeze. Yet, to Ni Huibo, the mayor now seemed like a ghastly specter.

"Your energy is dwindling."

The smile gradually left the old mayor's face. With a gesture, the papers on the table fluttered into the corner.

Ni Huibo felt a pang of embarrassment. The entire afternoon, the mayor had been instructing him on how to infuse his energy into the brush and the characters, but despite the lengthy explanations, he still hadn't grasped the concept.

"Watching you write for so long has given me the urge to write as well."

The old mayor let out a sigh of disappointment, extended his hand, and the brush smoothly landed between his fingers.

A droplet of ink leaped from the inkstone and, before Ni Huibo could even react, merged with the wolf hair of the brush.

The old mayor examined the brush tip, nodded in approval, and began to write on the paper without any dramatic flair or powerful aura.

It was as though he wasn't writing but rather rowing a boat, his wrist gently swaying from side to side. Before long, four bold characters emerged.

Ni Huibo's brow furrowed as he watched intently.

Suddenly, an overwhelming presence burst forth from the characters, as if a battle-hardened general, ready to face death, had charged right up to him.

The palpable sense of menace startled him, causing the hair on his body to stand on end. Instinctively, he lunged forward, slapping the air as spiritual energy gathered in his palm, whipping up a gust of wind.

But in an instant, the trembling ceased, and the menacing aura vanished. There was no general, only the mayor setting down his brush.

"Was that an illusion?"

Ni Huibo paused, then quickly asked. The sensation had been so vivid that he could still feel the lingering spiritual energy in his palm.

The old mayor turned to face him and said, "The murderous aura you felt just now was no illusion. Had you not defended yourself, you would have certainly been injured."

"That's impossible!"

Ni Huibo stepped back, visibly shaken. Despite his usual composure, the revelation that a mere piece of calligraphy penned by the mayor could cause harm was startling. The palpable sense of lethal intent it emitted was downright chilling.

"This is what we call aura."

The old mayor approached and extended his hand. Within moments, he had gathered a shimmering golden light.