{Chapter: 283 80 million! Painted boat in the pond, smoke in the shallow!}
With everyone eagerly urging him, and after Lin Yuan gave his consent with a gentle nod, Ge Yuanshan finally raised the rice paper, revealing the masterpiece beneath.
The moment Lin Yuan's calligraphy was unveiled, the entire room fell silent.
Time itself seemed to pause.
Everyone's eyes locked onto the rice paper with visible astonishment.
Lin Yuan had chosen to write in a wild cursive script—a style notoriously difficult to master. His strokes were flowing and unrestrained, the characters appearing scattered and chaotic at first glance.
To the untrained eye, it might have seemed disorganized or even illegible.
But true connoisseurs of calligraphy recognized immediately what they were witnessing.
It was not chaos.
It was art—raw, primal, yet deliberate.
Cursive script, especially in its wild form, is inherently spontaneous and free-form, often appearing as though it were scrawled in the heat of inspiration. But within that messiness lies its beauty—an uncontainable energy, a rhythm that flows like a mountain stream cascading down rocky slopes.
Even those unfamiliar with the art of calligraphy found themselves unable to look away. They didn't need to understand every character to feel the artistry emanating from the strokes. It was as though the energy in Lin Yuan's brush had reached out and grabbed them by the soul.
The calligraphy enthusiasts in the crowd felt their hearts tremble.
This wasn't just good—it was sublime.
Even Yu Shanshan, who didn't often express strong opinions, stared blankly at the rice paper, completely mesmerized. Her lips moved, and if she weren't in a public setting, she would have likely blurted out: "Damn! That's some wicked calligraphy!"
Though many couldn't decipher the characters, they all agreed on one thing—Lin Yuan's writing was mesmerizingly beautiful.
His command of the brush and his grasp of the cursive style went far beyond mere technical skill.
This was someone who lived and breathed the art.
"This... this cursive script is truly astounding!" an older gentleman said, voice shaking with emotion. "The shifts in stroke weight, the way the ink fades just enough at the right moments... it's dazzling but strangely harmonious. It makes you want to just stand here and stare."
"Know the white but keep the black…" another murmured, quoting a classic Daoist idiom. "Clarity in the heart, but restraint in expression… his control is phenomenal."
"Such movement and power within the brush… These are good words! Remarkable words!"
Praise rained from every corner of the room.
Those who had spent years honing their own skills in calligraphy found themselves struggling to find words that could match what they felt in their hearts.
They were convinced.
Even though Lin Yuan was so much younger, his skill demanded admiration—respect even.
This wasn't just some prodigy showing off. It was someone with a deep understanding and reverence for the art form.
Lin Yuan, for his part, stood calmly beside the rice paper, his expression relaxed and unshaken.
He wasn't surprised.
He had long grown used to such reactions.
After all, his mastery of calligraphy had already reached a divine level. His brushstrokes were more than mere imitations of the classics—they were the culmination of all the styles and strengths of the greatest calligraphers throughout history, synthesized into a singular form of expression. The rhythm in his writing was like music—one didn't have to know the lyrics to feel the beauty in the melody.
Chi Qian, ever elegant and composed, found herself momentarily overwhelmed.
Her usually calm gaze was now filled with shock and wonder.
Her eyes, clear as crystals, widened slightly, sparkling like twin gemstones beneath the lights.
"The rhythm flows uninterrupted… the dynamic transitions… the balance of the visible and the hidden…" she murmured softly. "This isn't just ordinary skill. This is on par with the works of Zhang Xu or Huaisu…"
Chi Qian had always had a passion for cursive script.
She had studied it meticulously, practiced it for years.
To her, cursive calligraphy was like poetry in motion—full of feeling and personality. She had even once been praised for her graceful execution.
She believed that within five years, perhaps sooner, she could reach the level of a true master.
But now…
Looking at Lin Yuan's work, she was forced to reconsider.
The gap between them was so vast it almost hurt.
This was not merely the skill of a master.
It was something even greater.
An unreachable summit.
Even if she became a master one day, Chi Qian doubted she could write like this.
For the first time in a long while, she looked at Lin Yuan not with simple admiration, but with an emotion bordering on awe.
In the fields where she prided herself on her excellence, Lin Yuan always managed to outshine her—time and time again—effortlessly and naturally.
It was hard to believe… and even harder to accept.
Snapping out of her daze, she took a step closer and gently read aloud the line written in Lin Yuan's wild cursive script. Her voice was soft, almost reverent, carrying both clarity and respect.
Everyone else listened attentively, their breaths caught in their throats.
They weren't just reading calligraphy now.
They were witnessing a moment of art history in the making.
"The mist and the rain… Painted boat in the pond, smoke in the shallow…"
Chi Qian gently repeated the line written by Lin Yuan, her soft voice drifting in the quiet hall like a feather on the breeze. She murmured it again, and again—until its hidden meaning gradually dawned upon her.
"The pond… the shallow…"
She blinked rapidly, her long eyelashes fluttering as her heart began to beat just a little faster.
The poem contained her name—Chi Qian.
"Chi" meant pond. "Qian" meant shallow. Lin Yuan had composed this line of poetry with her in mind.
"The Painted Boat in the pond, smoke in the shallow" … The pond in the beginning and the shallow at the end. (T/N: = Chi = pond; = Qian = shallow)
A poetic dedication.
Chi Qian, typically composed and elegant like a lotus on still water, felt something stir deep within her. Though her expression remained calm on the surface, a strange brilliance flickered in her eyes. She stared at Lin Yuan, a mixture of surprise, warmth, and something more elusive reflected in her gaze.
Yu Shanshan, who had been admiring the calligraphy with pure awe, hadn't grasped the full meaning at first. She had only been impressed by the sheer elegance and mastery of the script. But as Chi Qian chanted the line aloud, repeating it in a daze, the poetic layer beneath the ink slowly unfolded in her mind.
"The mist and rain are like smoke… a painted boat upon the pond, smoke lingering in the shallows…" Yu Shanshan murmured to herself as she pieced it together.
Then, with wide eyes, she turned to Chi Qian and exclaimed, "Wait a minute—Qian Qian! That line is about you, isn't it? That's your name in the verse!"
Chi Qian, cheeks flushed ever so slightly, gave a subtle nod.
"Yes."
Yu Shanshan gasped dramatically and spun around to look at Lin Yuan. Her tone instantly switched to playful accusation. "Hey! Cousin, you're too much! Writing poetry to tease your wife right in front of everyone? So shameless!"
Chi Qian's fair cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red at the blunt remark. Her delicate hands, shaped like knives, gently chopped at Yu Shanshan's head in embarrassment.
"Don't talk nonsense," Chi Qian muttered, but her tone held no real anger.
Yu Shanshan quickly raised her arms to protect her head with a sheepish laugh, only for Chi Qian to pause halfway and let her hand drop. Instead of continuing the mock punishment, she cast her gaze once more toward Lin Yuan.
This young man… always exceeding her expectations.
Though countless people were captivated by Lin Yuan's calligraphy, and many of Jiangbei's most respected art collectors and calligraphy enthusiasts sang his praises without restraint, there was still one person whose opinion everyone awaited.
Ge Yuanshan, the master calligrapher, had remained silent until now.
The elderly man finally opened his eyes after a moment of quiet reflection. Stroking his beard, he spoke with measured gravity.
"Young man… you are truly remarkable," Ge Yuanshan began. "Your calligraphy—how do I put this—has immense vitality and power. Let me summarize what I see in your work. The brushstrokes are flowing and full of rhythm… bold and daring, yet refined. The momentum is unbroken, spiraling, dancing like a dragon in the clouds, galloping like a wild steed set free."
"There is a tendency of the script to fall like a thousand miles of cascading water, yet still display restraint, elegance. It moves like wind and rain, as if dragons and serpents have come to life on the rice paper."
"Though the layout seems chaotic at first glance, there is a calmness within—a quiet order hidden beneath the wild brushwork. It's mad, yet beautiful. Frantic, yet poetic."
He paused, his tone growing more emotional.
"This… this is not just calligraphy. This is a spiritual dance captured in ink."
Then, with a wry chuckle, he turned toward Lin Yuan and said, "I must confess something, Xiao Yuan. That's how I shall call you now—Xiao Yuan. Originally, I had planned to ask you to be my apprentice. I thought it would be my honor to teach a bright young man like yourself."
"But after witnessing your writing just now… I feel ridiculous for ever entertaining that idea. Your skill has clearly surpassed mine. It would be foolish for me to act as your master."
He sighed, shaking his head with a soft smile. "In fact, I even intended to frame your work and hang it next to my front door. But now, I feel like that space may not be worthy of holding such a masterpiece."
Lin Yuan, ever composed, replied politely, "Elder Ge, you flatter me too much. I am truly honored by your kind words. In truth, I admire you greatly and have learned much from studying your style."
His words were respectful yet humble, displaying not only his refined character but also his genuine reverence for those who came before him.
Ge Yuanshan chuckled and waved his hand. "Don't try to console this old man. I know what I see. There are some gaps in life that are greater than the distance between heaven and earth. Talent like yours—it's born, not made."
Then, changing his tone slightly, he raised a brow and leaned forward. "Now, allow this old man to ask a more practical question. How much do you plan to sell this piece for?"
Everyone in the hall turned to look at Ge Yuanshan in shock. He continued:
"This old man has spent a lifetime collecting scriptures, calligraphy, and paintings… But this one, this one I must have."
"I am willing to offer eighty million for your calligraphy, Xiao Yuan. Will you sell it to me?"
Eighty million!
The room erupted into murmurs of disbelief. Some gasped. Some whispered. Others stood frozen, their mouths agape.
No one had expected such an astronomical offer—especially not for something Lin Yuan had written so casually in front of everyone just moments ago.
But those who understood, truly understood, knew that Ge Yuanshan's offer wasn't just about buying a piece of art.
It was about securing a piece of history.
*****
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