The Chinese Warlord was not a barbarian.
Brutal in rule and absolute in law, yes—but he admired beauty.
He collected art from the territories he conquered, and artists, when spared, often found his favor.
While on a military drive through the Southern mountains, the Warlord heard whispers of a Master painter—
a man said to paint carp so lifelike, they seemed to swim across rice paper.
Even more remarkable, the carp were rendered with only a few lines—just the right lines, in just the right places.
Intrigued, the Warlord paid a visit.
His retinue was large and fearsome, but the Master bowed low and listened.
“I will return in a few weeks,” said the Warlord,
“when I have finished my tour of the Southern ranges. Have my carp ready.”
The Master, trembling slightly, agreed.
But the Warlord did not return.
Resistance in the Southern mountains turned fierce.
Weeks became months. Months became years.
Five years passed—and when the war ended, the Warlord was no longer a general.
He was Emperor of all China.
Five more years passed.
Now ruler of the land, the Emperor was touring his domain when he found himself again near the Master’s home.
He remembered the carp. He had thought of it many times.
This time, he sent word: the Emperor was coming.
The Master again bowed low, now before a sovereign.
Before any further word, the Emperor demanded, “Where is my carp?”
The Master nodded, stepped to his table, dipped his brush into ink—and within minutes, painted a single carp.
It swam across the rice paper, black ink bending like muscle and scale, water and breath.
The fish moved. The fish lived.
The Emperor was stirred.
Then, just as quickly, his softness turned to rage.
“I ordered this ten years ago,” he thundered.
“And now—now that I return as your Emperor—you paint it in minutes?”
“Was I so forgettable a warlord? Did you expect I would die in the mountains?”
“Tell me one reason—one—that I should not have your head before the sun sets.”
The Master said nothing.
He walked to the cabinets lining his walls, opened the doors—
—and out tumbled rolls upon rolls of paintings.
Hundreds. Thousands.
Each a carp. Some in motion, some still. Some twisting, some leaping.
The walls were lined with a decade of carp.
Only then did the Master speak.
“My Emperor,” he said, “I did not forget your command. I honored it.”
“I studied the carp’s movement—how the muscles flexed, how the spine turned, how water resisted and yielded.”
“I spent a year learning how ink flows through rice paper. How long a line could live before bleeding into ruin.”
“I painted a thousand carp, and failed a thousand times.”
“Only now, after ten years, was I able to paint your carp—
the one I always meant to give you.”
The Emperor was silent.
Then, with slow breath, he nodded.
And he did not call for the executioner.
