"Forget it... At least I know Old Lin's predicament, and he knows I'm still alive..."
"As long as Old Lin is alright..."
"Oh..."
"Old Lin, Old Lin, time is limited, you really need to 'adapt' sooner..."
Mao Feiyang glanced at the sky, which was now swirling with vortex-like thunderclouds; the cracks that had appeared earlier had vanished as if they were mere illusions.
He picked up the paper and set up the easel again, but as he looked at the discarded palette, the paint buckets he had kicked away, and the paint all over the floor, he couldn't help but rub his temples with a headache.
"Did I really do all this...?"
"It must have been Old Lin, right? It has to be him... Only he would do something like this."
"Tch... my head hurts, my head hurts..."
He sat down on the ground, resting his chin in his hands as he looked at the paper, and he shook his head and sighed helplessly.
