The two middle-aged men, fueled by nostalgia and rivalry, refused to back down. With determination, they marched into the study, setting out pens, ink, paper, and inkstones—ready for a showdown in painting.
"But what should we draw?" Mr. Kurds asked.
After a moment of thought, he suggested, "Remember when we first met our mentor at the school's Lotus Pond? Why not draw a lotus? Let's see who has more imagination."
Painting from memory, without a real-life model, was a test not just of skill, but of spiritual connection.
Mr. Wood, however, frowned at the mention. "You dare bring her up? Hmph! You're just showing off that your wife used to be our mentor!"
Back in college, both men had pursued the same senior. In the end, Mr. Kurds had won her heart. The loss had stung Mr. Wood deeply—so much so that he hadn't spoken to Mr. Kurds for days. It had taken a grand feast at the school canteen to reconcile their friendship.
For Mr. Kurds, it was a fond, romantic memory.
For Mr. Wood, it was a chapter of heartbreak—an awkward relic of youth.
"I'm not painting a lotus," he said flatly.
Sensing his discomfort, Mr. Kurds chuckled and quickly changed the topic. "Then how about... a bird?"
Mr. Wood searched his memories and found no emotional ties between the senior and birds. He nodded. "Alright. Birds it is."
The friendly competition began. Each man took his place at a separate table and began to paint.
John, amused by their enthusiasm, stood aside to observe in silence.
Not long after, both men set down their brushes, each eager to hear John's judgment.
"Mr. Lopez," Mr. Wood said, "don't worry about giving a professional critique—just tell us your first impression. Who did better?"
Mr. Kurds also looked at him with anticipation.
John smiled. "Alright then, I'll share my personal thoughts. If I say anything out of place, please forgive me."
He picked up Mr. Kurds' painting first, examining it closely.
"Mr. Kurds' piece is bold and expressive," John began. "His brushwork is strong and confident, exuding a powerful presence. The bird raises its head, its long beak sharp and proud. Its feathers flutter against the wind—this is a painting full of ambition."
Both men were stunned.
Before they could comment, John turned to Mr. Wood's painting and continued:
"Mr. Wood's technique isn't bad either. But there's something unusual in the brushwork—chaotic, even. The ink strokes are inconsistent, the style unbalanced. Mr. Wood... were you distracted while painting?"
Mr. Wood froze.
When he had begun, he had indeed intended to mimic Mr. Kurds' bold style. But midway through, he had been overcome by memories of his late wife. She used to sit beside him, watching as he painted. That warmth, that presence, had flooded his thoughts and altered the flow of his work.
Then, as he remembered Linda—his second wife—who had betrayed him and used dark means to harm him, his emotions had shifted again, this time toward anger and pain.
All of that had bled into the painting.
John had read it perfectly—emotions hidden in ink and line, visible only to someone deeply attuned.
The realization left both men speechless.
This wasn't just a talented young man.
This was someone who could read souls through brush and ink.
"You... saw all that... from the painting?" Mr. Wood said quietly, stunned.
It was clear now—John Lopez wasn't just a skilled healer.
He was a master of calligraphy and painting.
"I never imagined Mr. Lopez possessed such profound insight at such a young age," said Mr. Kurds in awe. "We're honestly embarrassed."
Then his expression lit up. "Mr. Lopez, since you're clearly a practitioner as well—would you do us the honor of drawing something for us?"
Mr. Wood also looked at him expectantly.
"You sure you want to see me paint?" John asked with a grin.
They both nodded eagerly.
"In that case, I'll give it a shot. But I won't be painting a bird," John said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
He sat down, prepared his materials—and then suddenly stopped. "I'm a little shy," he added. "I'll show you after I'm finished."
"We understand," Mr. Kurds said with a knowing smile. "Some artists prefer to work alone."
He and Mr. Wood stepped back and waited on the sofa.
Ten minutes later, John returned to the living room, holding a rolled scroll.
"That was fast," Mr. Wood said with surprise.
They exchanged glances. Maybe he just drew quickly. Or maybe... it wasn't anything serious.
Still, out of politeness, Mr. Kurds offered encouragement. "We look forward to seeing it, Mr. Lopez. No pressure—whatever you drew, we're honored."
But the moment they unrolled the painting, his words caught in his throat.
"Mr. Lopez… did you really draw this?" Mr. Kurds stammered.
Even Mr. Wood was dumbfounded.
The style was unmistakable—graceful, fluid, and powerful. With just a few masterful strokes, it captured an entire artistic realm.
It was the work of a legend.
There was only one person who painted like this.
The Master of Clouds.
They had never seen this particular painting before, but the signature style was undeniable.
John scratched his head and smiled sheepishly.
"Yeah… I'm the Master of Clouds."
Their jaws dropped.
Total silence.
Shock turned into awe.
The man who had quietly joined their tea and banter was none other than the famed artistic master who had shaken the painting world.
And he was barely thirty.