In the shadowed heart of the ancient castle, within a study steeped in the musty scent of time, Du Wei stood bathed in the flickering glow of candles. His gaze was fixed upward, locked on an oil painting adorning the wall. A fleeting silence hung between boy and canvas, unanswered by the painted figure staring back.
Du Wei's brow furrowed slightly. "Not keen on answering?"
The face in the painting held his gaze, unyielding.
A sly grin crept across Du Wei's lips, tinged with mischief. He sauntered to one side, dragging a tall ladder to the bookshelf. With deliberate steps, he ascended, hands reaching to wrest the painting from its perch.
Panic flickered across the painted visage; those eyes, now wide with alarm, darted toward Du Wei's face.
"Hmph!" With a grunt, Du Wei tugged the heavy frame from the wall. For a wiry youth like him, the weight strained his arms, leaving them tingling with effort. Yet, to his astonishment, the back of the painting revealed… nothing. No hidden mechanism, no figure lurking behind. The painting itself was the enigma.
His expression sobered. Carefully, he descended, cradling the frame. The figure within gazed back, its features twisted with unease, a bitter edge to its stare.
"What are you?" Du Wei's voice was low, probing. "A portrait come to life?"
The painted eyes flickered, evasive.
"Hm. This is the likeness of the Rowling House's great ancestor, the Imperial Marshal…" Du Wei mused, then chuckled. "But no, that doesn't add up. He lived over two centuries ago, and this painting was crafted later, a tribute to his memory. So, I'll ask again—what are you?"
Silence persisted. Du Wei's face darkened. "Oh, playing mute? Don't regret it." He gestured toward the candelabras. "See these flames? If you don't talk, I'll let them have you. Think I won't?"
With that, he plucked a lit candle from its holder, inching the flame toward the canvas.
The figure's expression collapsed into raw fear, eyes pleading as the fire drew near. Just as the flame licked close to the edge, Du Wei pulled it back, nodding. "So, you can't speak. Can you speak at all?"
The figure shook its head frantically.
"Then what are you?" Du Wei's eyes gleamed with curiosity. A living painting—could it be some trick of magic?
But the figure offered no answers, only a relieved sigh as the threat of fire receded. It studied Du Wei, its gaze now tinged with intrigue.
He pressed with more questions, but the mute canvas could only nod or shake its head. Their exchange faltered, yielding little. Boy and painting locked eyes, a standoff in the dim light.
Then, the great clock on the study wall tolled, its deep chime heralding midnight.
A faint glow shimmered in the figure's painted eyes. A sigh, soft yet unmistakable, brushed Du Wei's ears—a human sigh.
"Listen well!" The voice was urgent, fleeting. "A spell binds me, but when midnight's bell tolls, I can speak—briefly. When it ceases, my voice fades. I'll say this once: there's a hidden chamber in this study, filled with treasures. I can guide you to them. In return, I need your aid—one treasure can break my curse."
Du Wei's eyes widened. "You're speaking?"
"Yes! No time to explain," the voice snapped. "Check the third painting on the wall—it holds a clue. Follow it. If you're not a fool, you'll find the way…"
Dong!
The final chime rang out. The light in the figure's eyes dimmed, and its voice fell silent. It stared at Du Wei, its expression a silent plea.
"So, you're under a spell, eh?" Du Wei said, smirking. "And there's a secret chamber with a treasure to free you. That right?"
The figure nodded with each question, its face alight with hope.
"Fine. But what's in it for me?" Du Wei's grin widened. "Why should I help you?"
The figure's expression faltered, its pleading gaze deepening, desperate to speak yet voiceless.
"Eh, never mind," Du Wei said, waving a hand. "I'm curious enough. Let's call it an adventure." He climbed the ladder again, following the figure's earlier hint, and turned his attention to the third painting.
It depicted another Rowling ancestor, clad in a naval general's uniform, stern and unyielding, his gaze fixed forward. Du Wei scrutinized it, searching for any sign—a mark, a clue. He even lifted the frame to check behind it. Nothing.
Perched on the ladder, he paused, refusing to rush. Patience was his ally. He examined the painting again, detail by detail, three times over. Then, a spark of insight struck. The figure's eyes—they stared straight ahead.
Du Wei's pulse quickened. He traced the line of sight across the room. The painted gaze pointed to a knight's broadsword hanging on the opposite wall.
Grunting, he shoved the ladder across the room—a taxing effort for a thirteen-year-old, but his curiosity burned brighter than his fatigue. He inspected the sword. Its blade, angled subtly, pointed to a nearby bookshelf.
He followed the trail, hands brushing the shelves. At last, on a crossbeam, his fingers grazed uneven ridges. He slowed, tracing them carefully. Not mere scratches—a line of text, carved backward.
To a casual touch, it might pass as decorative etching. But Du Wei deciphered it: "The answer lies in the night sky, where the great ladle is the key to the path forward."
He slid down the ladder, plopping cross-legged on the floor, chin in hand. A riddle?
"The night sky… the great ladle…" he muttered.
Then it hit him. He shot to his feet, eyes alight. The night sky held stars. And the great ladle? The North Star's Plough—seven stars, shaped like a scoop.
He dove back to the shelves, hunting for anything tied to the stars. Astrology, perhaps. Using the catalog, he found a section dedicated to star-lore. Up he climbed, counting to the seventh shelf, fingers probing each book.
One volume resisted, heavier than the rest. He tugged harder. Not paper—metal. A grinding rumble echoed within the wall, gears turning.
With a low groan, the bookshelf pivoted, revealing a dark, gaping passage behind it…