Look, you are getting worked up again.

At this moment, Old Zhang looked up at Xia Lin, feeling as if the man was glowing from head to toe. He truly had not expected Xia Lin to take the initiative to pull him up under such circumstances. Although he was accustomed to Xia Lin’s sudden, impulsive actions, it was still difficult to put into words how he felt deep down. Perhaps this was what it meant to depend on each other for survival.

Old Zhang was a clever man. He walked up quickly, starting with a few words of complaint. He whispered, "Why don't you just strip me naked and parade me through the streets while you're at it?"

"Damn it, why are you being so pretentious? You talk about this every single day, so why are you backing out now?" Xia Lin retorted. "Look at the level of masters watching us. If they see your talent and offer even a hint of guidance, you could call yourself their protégé. Do you have any idea what that means?"

What the two were saying went unheard by others, but whether it was the onlookers below or the celebrities peering down from above, all eyes were fixed on them, waiting to see what they would do.

Although Old Zhang was uninhibited and possessed a rather eccentric mind, Xia Lin held his professional skills in high regard. While others were hailed as grand masters, Old Zhang’s calligraphy, even if not quite on par with Wang Xizhi, was certainly no worse than someone like Yu Shinan. In fact, his technique absorbed styles from many future generations, and one could even detect a touch of Yan Zhenqing’s influence.

His painting was even more spectacular than his calligraphy. It integrated techniques from later eras, such as perspective and the application of light and shadow, giving his work a long-lasting, majestic quality. His peony paintings had once been peerless under heaven, and now, by fusing fine-brushwork with oil painting techniques, any piece he produced was truly a masterpiece.

"Bring a long scroll."

Old Zhang didn't waste time. He rolled up his sleeves and gestured with an air of great authority, but his shout went unheeded. The situation became awkward, drawing a burst of laughter from the crowd.

Just then, a voice echoed from above: "Lin Xiong, go fetch him a scroll and writing materials."

Looking up, they saw a middle-aged man in luxurious silk robes. His aura was clearly extraordinary, and his facial features bore a resemblance to the young princess; he was likely the master of the Pavilion of Prince Teng.

As expected, the guards below immediately complied and brought over a full set of painting supplies. Though this wasn't the first time Old Zhang had seen Prince Teng, years had passed, and the Prince had likely long forgotten him. Fortunately, Old Zhang was a man who could let things go; he didn't try to claim an old acquaintance, but instead silently rolled up his sleeves, licked the tip of his brush, and used his teeth to pull off a few stray hairs.

An expert shows their worth at the first touch. This single action caused Yu Shinan, watching from above, to exclaim in surprise, and he began to watch with keen interest.

Once Old Zhang began to paint, his unrestrained nature vanished. It was as if he had been possessed by something, and his entire aura shifted. He pondered for a moment, then his brush danced like a dragon or snake. He held eight brushes between his ten fingers, varying in thickness and color, moving in a rhythm that felt like a dance. Everyone present held their breath, as if drawn into his inner world.

The scroll was long—about six meters—the kind of material specifically prepared for long texts or expansive paintings. It was expensive and difficult to make; ordinary people would neither have access to it nor the courage to use it.

Old Zhang was fully focused. Xia Lin stood by, helping him pull the scroll as he moved back and forth, layering lines and colors. Naturally, a long scroll required time, but even in the sweltering heat of summer, the surroundings were strangely quiet, as everyone had entered a meditative state, following the strokes of his brush.

Ethereal peaks, the churning Gan River, the Pavilion of Prince Teng reflecting off the clouds and stars—the painting captured the very essence of the Gan-Po region. It was rugged, majestic, and magnificent, with the endless river flowing and the sun, moon, and stars in eternal rotation. The breeze from Lake Poyang seemed to blow upon the faces of those present, making them shiver.

When the final stroke of color was laid down, Old Zhang began to transcribe the poetry. It was the "Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng," but now, there was a soul within the calligraphy and a spirit within the painting, bringing the greatest parallel prose of the ages to life before the eyes of the world.

"Hiss..." Yu Shinan shivered, his hands gripping the railing tightly. "A genius! A true genius!"

Even Prince Teng, who didn't know much about painting, was entranced. He felt as if he were standing atop the mountains, surveying the vast landscape, a heroic spirit surging within his chest. He felt as if he were riding a lonely boat across the Yangtze, embracing the starry sky and the flowing river. He exhaled a long breath, and the tension in his chest vanished, his very muscles relaxing.

Though the others lacked such a profound state of mind, they were left stunned. Usually, they only painted beauties or flowers and plants; never before had they seen such a sweeping, grand scroll. One look showed the infinite beauty of the landscape; the second, the vastness of the world where one could soar freely.

In an instant, the final character of the preface was written. Old Zhang’s hands and face were covered in colorful ink, but he didn't care. He simply looked down at his work, whispering, "Good, good, good! To have the fortune to paint this—I could die right now and be content."

"Hearing the Way in the morning, one can die in the evening..." Xia Lin kicked him. "Can you try to be a bit more cultured?"

This exchange pulled Prince Teng and his entourage out of their trance. These old and middle-aged men looked at each other and suddenly burst into hearty, genuine laughter.

Were these two not the mirror images of their own lost youth? Once upon a time, they too had shouted and run through the wilderness, feeling the spring breeze and summer rain without a care in the world. Yet, somewhere along the way, they had taken on heavy burdens; they had forgotten how many years it had been since they were so carefree.

"Invite them both to the main hall."

This maneuver had earned them their ticket into the inner circle and effectively silenced the crowd. Whether Xia Lin needed to show his own hand didn't matter; they rose and fell together. Since Old Zhang had delivered a masterpiece, Xia Lin could afford to rest, and, in essence, it was the best promotion Old Zhang could have asked for.

Xia Lin didn't need to show his face; everyone present had come for him, though they didn't know that the world-renowned "Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng" had come from the hand of the young man who had just been pulling the scroll. He was in no hurry to reveal his identity; after all, he was just playing the game.

The main hall was on the third floor, and the gathering was small, mostly composed of elders. As they ascended, the men smiled at them. Recognizing no one, the two bowed to the Prince.

"That painting just now—where did you learn such a technique? It was truly magnificent."

The scroll had dried, and two guards brought it up. The refined scholars gathered around to study it. Only Yu Shinan approached Old Zhang, smiling as he asked, "Your technique is remarkable; even I would struggle to rival it. And your calligraphy—it is noteworthy and has a style all its own. This is quite interesting, very interesting indeed."

The old man had taken a liking to the talent before him. Xia Lin knew this was Old Zhang’s chance. He stepped forward, smiling and bowing, "May I ask who the senior is?"

"Oh, forgive my manners. I am Yu Shinan, a scholar of the Hongwen Pavilion." After speaking, Yu Shinan bowed slightly to Old Zhang: "And may I ask who this young man is?"

Oh, dear... Xia Lin was stunned, quickly pulling on Old Zhang, who was about to return the bow formally. Xia Lin then bowed so low his head nearly touched his knees. "Grand Scholar Yu! Your name is legendary. I have had the honor of studying your calligraphy; it is truly incomparable, perhaps even surpassing Wang Xizhi, and I wonder if anyone will ever follow in your footsteps."

"So you are Grand Scholar Yu!" Old Zhang realized who he was and quickly adopted a look of pleasant surprise, bowing deeply as well. "I truly had eyes but failed to recognize Mount Tai."

"Hahaha, no matter, no matter. Where are you from? Your accent does not sound local."

While Old Zhang was conversing with Yu Shinan, the young princess suddenly ran up, lifting her skirts. Seeing her daughter running in such a manner, the Prince frowned. "Qianqian! Why are you so reckless? You don't look like a girl at all!"

"I know, I know."

The young princess dropped her skirt and grabbed Xia Lin’s hand. "Come quickly, come quickly! Don't play with these old men, my cousin is here!"

"Qian..."

Before the Prince could finish, the young princess had dragged the bewildered Xia Lin away, leaving her father, a man who stood above all others, standing there with a face shifting between pale and flushed.

A man beside the Prince walked over, patted his shoulder, and sighed, giving him a look that said, "I understand." Other men followed with knowing, stifled laughs.

This look—that of "congratulations, your prized cabbage has been taken by a pig"—left the Prince feeling a mix of frustration and amusement. He suddenly turned around: "You old fogies, what are you laughing at? If I see anyone laughing again, I’ll have my second son forcibly marry your daughters!"

The group laughed even harder. Only Yu Shinan remained immersed in conversation with Old Zhang, discussing painting techniques, having become unlikely friends, completely lost in the world of art.