Half-step Purgatory

Durin stroked the black cat on the armrest of his chair, sitting on the black leather sofa. Through the glasses perched on his nose, his gaze passed over the long table in front of him and settled on the man kneeling on the carpet:
"I understand, you've made money in Naples, your business has been very successful, and you've led a happy life. You've had those secret police, friends in both the law and the underground, and even the Royal Family speaking on your behalf."
"You don't need a friend like me, I know that. You're afraid of owing me a favor, and you don't want to get involved in troubles."
"But now you come to me and say, 'I beg you, Mr. Durin of the Corleon family, please help me seek justice, so that my life and my family will not suffer and sink into despair.'
Yet, in your eyes, I was nothing more than a second-rate artist involved in movies and music. Even at the brink of death, you still show me such disrespect, not even willing to call me by my title... Keeper of Secrets."

Durin's Diary

"Ah, that's a term from Chang Tang. In the Western Lands, we say twenty-five percent."


Upon saying this, Durin pointed to the painting in front of him, "What I've drawn now is merely a rough sketch; it still needs refinement."


Mr. Wilson seemed a bit bewildered, "It's already so well done, does it still need to be fixed?"


"Of course," Durin answered and with a wave of his hand said, "Mr. Wilson, come have dinner with me; one should not be shortchanged."


After leaving the Chelney estate, Wilson Hackshell didn't go straight home; instead, he went to the painters' salon.


Upon entering, an old Ganai laughed aloud, "Isn't this our Red Dragon Mr. Wilson? Tell us, what's the story today? Why have you come to the salon? Are you wanting to see if any of us old timers are slacking off today?"


"Stop it, brothers, I think I've encountered the Hand of God today." Wilson didn't mince words; they burst forth like a tiger's roar.


Chapter 195: Composing Poetry through Painting