The self-portraitist, as far as I know, falls into only two categories: the profoundly autistic or the supremely narcissistic.

The narcissistic tend to favor painting their profiles, as this best accentuates their unique persona, whereas only the autistic prefer a full frontal view.

The fact that the portrait was hidden beneath a rush mat suggests the painter lacked significant confidence.

What kind of man Lei Yun Monk was, I cannot say, but for someone who seeks to incite war and command immense influence, the likelihood of him being autistic is remarkably small, nor would he have the leisure to paint his own likeness.

This room now feels more like a cell, and the prisoner had clearly not been held here for long.

Because there was **only one rush mat, the kind only used in summer.

This detail, however, undermines my previous assumption; this person might not be Lei Yun Monk after all.

Yet, constructing the cell within the Dragon Tower suggests the occupant held a significant status—even in confinement, it implies house arrest.

So, who could this person be? I genuinely cannot conceive.

It was then that Da Xiong called out from beside me, "Look, this painting seems a bit odd."

I turned my head toward the painting Da Xiong was pointing at and remarked, "Isn't this just an ordinary ink wash of bamboo in a mountain breeze? What's strange about it?"

Da Xiong then said, "These bamboo stalks have no roots."

Thinking he had uncovered something substantial, I smiled faintly and replied, "No roots is perfectly normal; do you think this is real bamboo? Bamboo in a painting can remain vibrant for centuries without roots. In many Chinese ink wash paintings, bamboo is deliberately rendered without them; if the nodes and leaves are depicted with lifelike verve, it's considered a fine piece."

Da Xiong nodded. "I know that. Did you take me for an idiot? Of course, I know that. But even if the bamboo lacking roots isn't strange, **also lacks roots, and the waterfall blooms before it even reaches the ground—is that normal?"

I realized Da Xiong was referring to a few other paintings, so I examined them one by one. Indeed, I found that the bottom edge of every painting had about two centimeters of blank space, making all of them appear to float slightly upward.

The last painting, the **one, not only showed the roots of the flowers failing to reach the ground, but the highest flower had several petals obscured by the very top edge of the frame.

"The picture is too small..." was my initial thought.

But I immediately sensed something was wrong. If the picture were small and the frame large, the bottom edge would expose the color of the frame, not the white of the paper.

Unless... unless there was another painting layered behind these ones.

With that thought, I leaned closer to one of the paintings and, upon careful inspection, spotted two layers of paper.

It was possible someone intended to conceal the original artwork with a newer one.

Could it be that the Second Brother, severely wounded and struggling here, sought only to uncover these hidden paintings?

The realization spurred me to action. I immediately had Da Xiong, the tallest among us, carefully remove the paintings one by one.

Fortunately, the frames weren't permanently glued; one edge at the top could be pried open to reveal the artwork inside.

Since the concealed painting within was slightly larger, the first one I extracted was the hidden layer.

When I cautiously pulled out the hidden painting and held it before my eyes, we were all struck with surprise.

For what was depicted was another portrait of that old man.

However, this time, the old man in the painting was different.

Beneath his jaw, a layer of black feathers had sprouted.

Furthermore, the old man's expression had shifted from the initial benevolence to one tinged with fear and unease.

Taking out the next hidden painting, I saw that the old man's neck and cheeks were now covered in black fur, and his lips were beginning to rot and peel away, revealing gleaming teeth in a truly terrifying spectacle.

The painting below that depicted the old man's entire face covered in hair, unrecognizable, and from the decaying upper and lower remnants of his mouth, a sharp, long beak, like that of a bird, had emerged.

"Is this some kind of 'Bird-Man' comic book series?" Da Xiong muttered after meticulously comparing the three images.

I swatted the back of his head. "Look closely. Doesn't the final form of this old man resemble the statue of Lei Yun Monk we saw? I think this is illustrating the process of him transforming into a bird-man."

Da Xiong was unconvinced. "* you, are you daft? Look at the decor here—it's clearly the style of the 1950s or 60s. And for Lei Yun Monk to only transform into a monster when he's that old defies logic. How do you explain the great monster from three hundred years ago?"

I conceded Da Xiong had a point, but I truly couldn't devise any other explanation.

"Stop arguing. Come look at what the last painting means," Nie Chuan interrupted from the side, addressing us.

As I turned, I saw Nie Chuan unfurling the final painting for us to see.

At that moment, I saw that this painting depicted absolutely nothing—except for a few intertwined English letters right in the center of the white paper, seemingly "ZERO."

"Zero?" Nie Chuan pronounced the Chinese meaning of the English characters.

"Zero... what does that mean? Does it signify starting from scratch? Or something else entirely?" I murmured to myself.

We all wore expressions of utter confusion, unable to fathom why Lei Yun Monk would scrawl the English letter zero in the final picture.

After a moment of thought, Nie Chuan asked me, "If 'zero' is written as the Arabic numeral 0, it's a circle. Could the meaning here be that the beginning is the end? A cycle, repeating endlessly?"

"What is repeating endlessly? What is cycling?" I asked.

Clearly, Nie Chuan was more inspired than I was at that moment. He stated, "These paintings—they represent a cycle. They will reappear in this world, repeating over and over."

"You mean the transformation from a normal man into a bird—that event is a loop?" I clarified.

"I suspect so. Otherwise, why would Lei Yun Monk be painting this process of change in a mirror centuries later? It suggests this has happened countless times over the past few hundred years."

What Nie Chuan said seemed plausible, so I stroked my chin and began analyzing.

However, at that precise moment, the last Cold Flame Fire held by Da Xiong suddenly sputtered out.

Although the moon had already risen outside, providing illumination along with countless fireflies, the room plunged abruptly into darkness.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the darkness, one object lit up.

It was the flashlight that the Second Brother had dropped on the floor.

Now nearly depleted of power, the beam flickered, but it still illuminated an inconspicuous corner near the base of the wall.

My gaze inadvertently caught the area where the flashlight shone; the paint on the wall appeared somewhat uneven and bumpy.

I was momentarily startled, thinking perhaps the Second Brother had discovered what he was looking for just before he died, but lacking the strength and facing the end of his life, this was his only way to hint to those who followed that the secret lay there.

With this idea taking hold, I quickly strode toward the spot the flashlight illuminated.

The other two, unaware of my objective, followed closely behind.

Kneeling by that corner, I examined it closely and realized the wall looked uneven because there was a very small, hidden panel, covered over with paint.

Judging by the size, it resembled a safe.

This small, safe-like door was situated beneath the dining table, meaning even if someone entered the room, it would be difficult to notice the panel concealed by the paint.

Scraping away the white paint on the wall with my military knife, I quickly exposed the underlying silver metallic material.

We also discovered a keyhole and an embedded combination dial.

After spending some time clearing all the paint, an old-fashioned gear-driven safe stood revealed before us.

But this presented a new dilemma, as the safe was so well-preserved that there was hardly any visible rust.

It was undoubtedly still robust, but we possessed neither the key nor the combination, making the task of opening it extremely difficult.

I tapped the safe door with my hand; the sound that echoed back was a dull thud.

It seemed there wasn't much inside—perhaps only some documents.