Chapter 145: Call Me Master Painter Ino

On the towering Mindolluin Mountains, stands a city radiating with holy light—Minas Tirith (the White City).

This city is like a brilliant gem, embedded at the confluence of the plains of Rohan and the Anduin River.

Viewed from above, the White City resembles a pristine snowflake, quietly lying in the embrace of the surrounding mountains. The city walls soar into the sky, with white stones gleaming solemnly and divinely in the sunlight.

On the city walls, spires rise densely, each equipped with a large catapult, standing as the city's protective swords pointing towards the heavens.

At the center of the White City stands the towering castle—The White Tower.

In the Third Age of Middle-earth, around 1900, Calimehtar (the 30th King of Gondor) built the first White Tower in Minas Anor to house the palantír.

The White Tower stands tall and flawless, while beneath it lies the seven-tiered city of Minas Tirith.

Though each tier has its own walls and entrance, these entrances are not aligned in a straight line. The main gate of the primary city wall faces east, with the next gate positioned to the southeast.

All entrances follow this pattern, with roads winding around the hill to reach the fortress.

...

Third tier, outer city of Minas Tirith.

Beside a wide, clean street, a young man in a light blue robe sits before an easel, painting.

This serene and beautiful scene is suddenly interrupted by a raspy voice:

"Young painter, are you really going up there to paint for those big shots? You must be making quite a bit, right?"

The speaker is a short, simply dressed elderly woman, who has set up a stall selling fruits and vegetables next to the young man.

"Julia, I've told you, don't call me 'young painter.' Call me Ino, or better yet, the Marvelous Master Painter!"

Putting down his paintbrush, Ino leans back in his chair, looking at her.

Having known each other for over two months, Ino and the elderly woman have grown familiar, occasionally exchanging harmless jokes to lighten their days.

"Marvelous? Your paintings aren't even as good as my granddaughter's! I don't know why those big shots keep hiring you."

Julia shakes her head in disbelief. She cannot fathom how someone could spend a whole gold coin for a painting, yet people still do.

"Ino, have you considered my granddaughter? Though she's younger than you, she's very capable. You could settle down now and get married in a few years."

"There you go again! I've already said I'm not getting married." Ino turns his head aside, feeling exasperated.

He knows Julia means well. Early widowhood left her to make a meager living selling vegetables while caring for a young granddaughter. Worried about dying and leaving the child alone, finding her a good match has become her obsession, even though the girl is only five years old.

Meanwhile...

Despite the direct rejection, Julia persistently advises:

"What do you mean, 'There you go again'? You're not getting any younger; you should get married! Plus, with your talent..."

Seeing she's about to continue her nagging, Ino stands up and interrupts:

"I have to go. I have an appointment... No, a painting session to get to! Goodbye, Julia!"

He grabs his briefcase and leaves without looking back.

As for his easel and chair, the stall fee in the White City is a steep one gold coin per month.

In a corner of the White City, Julia stands sadly at her vegetable stall.

"If you didn't want to hear me nag, just say so. Running off like that... Who goes to paint without taking their brushes?"

Despite her complaints, she packs up the brushes and paints on the easel, placing them under her stall.

...

Perhaps humans are inherently divided by class.

Minas Tirith is no exception. The higher you go, the more beautiful the city's construction, and the more influential the residents.

Fifth tier, inner city.

Here, the streets are not only wider and cleaner, but also lined with potted plants and flowers. Occasionally, residents pass by, faces beaming with contentment and peace.

Inside a refined house in the fifth tier...

"So, you've finally decided to spend a gold coin on a painting? No longer think I'm a swindler?"

Ino sits in a chair, teasing the young man opposite him—a youth of about twenty, with a well-built frame and golden hair, exuding a bold and brave aura even while sitting.

Meanwhile...

Hearing Ino's teasing, Théoden feels a headache coming on.

If time could be reversed, he would never have confronted and mocked Ino as a fraud two months ago.

But what's done is done, and he can only endure his friend's teasing.

Yes, it was that clash two months ago that gradually turned them into friends.

"My friend! I must leave!" Théoden's tone is somewhat melancholic.

Ino stops teasing, puzzled, "Leaving? For a trip? That's nothing; I travel often, much farther than you can imagine."

"No! I'm leaving for good," Théoden waves his hand, a bit wistful, "My father's guards brought word; I must return to Rohan."

"Rohan? Guards? Théoden?" Ino mutters these words.

"Yes, exactly as you think," Théoden nods seriously, "Officially introducing myself: Théoden, son of King Thengel and Morwen of Lossarnach, Crown Prince of Rohan."

Hearing this string of titles, Ino is momentarily stunned.

Regaining his composure, he thinks a crown prince is not such a big deal, since he's not a citizen of Rohan anyway.

"Alright, Your Highness the Crown Prince. I always thought you just had some family influence."

The familiar teasing voice rises again, making Théoden cover his face in exasperation.

"Stop it! Or I won't commission a painting from you and let you starve in Minas Tirith!"

"Fine, you're the big client, you have the final say! Pay up now, I'll paint right away." Ino spreads his hands in a gesture asking for the gold coin.

After a brief joke, Ino looks curiously at Théoden.

"Why does the Crown Prince of Rohan live in the White City of Gondor?"

...

Top tier of Minas Tirith.

Beside the Fountain Court...

Théoden stands under a withered white tree with arms folded, while ten feet away from him, Ino sets up a wooden box on a stand.

"Move a bit to the left! You're blocking the trunk!"

Ino, adjusting the focus, directs Théoden's position.

With a "click", time seems to freeze.

Looking at the photo of the majestic figure, Ino switches to auto shooting mode.

"Don't move! I'll come over, and we'll paint a picture together as a keepsake!"