Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

The crowds leaving the steel rolling mill surged out of the gates like a floodgate opening.

He Yuanchao pushed his gleaming Forever 28 bicycle against the current amidst countless envious or inquisitive gazes, his destination clear—the Qianmen Street Supply and Marketing Cooperative.

The kraft paper package in his hand attracted attention like a small sun.

In this day and age, the calligraphy and painting personally bestowed by Deputy Factory Director Lou Zhenhua are themselves a symbol of status and "culture".

Several familiar coworkers were still shouting at the top of their lungs behind them:

"Going to Korea! Really going to practice calligraphy? Take it easy, that paper is precious!"

He Yuanchao didn't turn around, but simply raised his hand and waved casually as a response.

With steady steps and a slight turn of the handlebars, he skillfully merged into the flow of bicycles heading towards the city center.

The sunlight fell on his straight back and on the package in his hand, giving it a heavy, substantial feel.

A few dozen meters behind, a slightly worn women's bicycle followed at a leisurely pace.

Lou Xiao'e pursed her lips, her eyes fixed on the tall, straight back in front of her with a complicated expression.

My father's almost fanatical praise still echoed in my ears, but a worker who could write such slender gold script? The huge contrast itself seemed unreal.

She wanted to see what He Yuanchao was really like in private, away from the halo of the factory leaders' office and the company of his coworkers!

Is he really as his father said, calm and composed, with inner beauty and a consistent personality?

……

The Qianmen Street Supply and Marketing Cooperative, with its red bricks and gray tiles, was bustling with activity.

Behind the glass counter was a crowd of working women and housewives who were stopping by on their way home from work to shop.

The air was filled with the smells of soy sauce, vinegar, kerosene, and sweat, and a constant buzz of discussion could be heard.

He Yuanchao parked his bicycle at the door and locked it.

He took the kraft paper package and headed straight for the counter selling stationery and paper.

This area is relatively quiet, with only a few people wearing blue "Dacron" (a type of synthetic fiber).

The female sales clerks in their work uniforms were huddled together, cracking sunflower seeds and chatting and laughing in hushed tones.

"Comrade, I need to buy some paper."

He Yuanchao's voice was not loud, but it clearly pierced through the noise.

A middle-aged woman with a round face and high cheekbones lazily raised her head from behind the counter and glanced at him.

My gaze lingered for a moment on his faded but clean blue overalls.

The gaze fell upon his face, with the usual scrutiny and impatience he showed when dealing with ordinary workers:

"What kind of paper do you need? Letter paper? Exercise book? Over there."

She gestured with her chin toward the counter next to her, where cheap, rough paper was piled up.

Xuan paper. Raw Xuan paper.

He Yuanchao added calmly, "It has to be good, the kind that's tough and absorbs ink well."

"Xuan paper?"

The round-faced woman seemed to have heard some rare word.

His eyebrows shot up dramatically, causing the sales clerks who were eating sunflower seeds nearby to stop what they were doing and look over curiously.

One of the younger girls, with two braids, couldn't help but burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling.

"Comrade, do you need Xuan paper?"

The round-faced woman sized He Yuanchao up and down, her tone filled with undisguised suspicion and a hint of amusement.

"That's not cheap! It's not the kind of rough paper used for printing official documents! It's the kind used for calligraphy and drawing! It's genuinely from Jingxian County, Anhui! This is the price per ream!"

She held up two fingers and made a "two" gesture.

A plump middle-aged woman, who had been watching the commotion, squeezed through the crowd, her voice booming:

"Hey young man, are you running errands for the factory's publicity department? How much do you need? Have them write a letter of introduction so we can buy according to the planned supply and get a discount."

She looked completely at ease, clearly believing that He Yuanchao was acting on behalf of the government.

He Yuanchao's face remained largely unchanged, still bearing that faint, enigmatic smile:

"It's not from the factory. I'm using it myself. Could you please give me ten?"

"For personal use?!"

This surprised not only the sales clerks, but also several customers waiting to buy things near the counter.

A barrage of gazes, like searchlights, focused on He Yuanchao.

A young man in overalls, clearly a factory worker, wants to buy ten sheets of expensive Xuan paper, "for his own use"?

The round-faced woman's expression shifted from suspicion to undisguised sarcasm; she drew out her words and raised her voice several decibels:

"Oh my! For yourself? Young man, you must be joking!"

Do you know how precious this Xuan paper is? One ream is worth more than half a month's salary! Ten sheets? Are you going to use them to wallpaper the walls or to line the table?

As she spoke, she chuckled to herself, which drew suppressed snickers from those around her.

"Yeah, kid, you should at least think before you brag, right?"

The plump auntie also shook her head with a smile.

"These days, people are struggling to make ends meet, who has spare money to buy this? And for personal use? Even writing big-character posters doesn't require such good paper!"

Her words drew more good-natured laughter.

The young saleswoman with braids suppressed a laugh and kindly advised, "Comrade, if you really want to practice calligraphy, just go over there and buy some rough-edged paper or old newspapers. They're cheap and plentiful, and you can use them just the same."

This Xuan paper... it's really not something ordinary people like us use.

Her tone was sincere, but it also carried the unspoken message, "Don't try to appear more important than you are."

Despite the mixed expressions of disdain, curiosity, and amusement, He Yuanchao's smile remained unchanged.

He seemed completely oblivious to the barb in those words.

Calmly, he took out some money from his pocket—a few brand-new "big unity" bills and some loose small bills, counting out two "big unity" bills.

And some small bills, gently placed on the glass counter.

"I have the money. Could you please give me ten sheets? They need to be durable and absorb ink well."

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable calmness.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

The area inside and outside the counter fell silent instantly.

The round-faced woman's mocking smile froze.

She stared wide-eyed at the two glaring "big unity" bills on the counter.

Looking at He Yuanchao's calm and expressionless face, she opened her mouth, but couldn't say a word for a moment.

The other sales clerks looked at each other, their eyes filled with shock and confusion.

The plump woman looked as if she had been choked; the smile on her face froze, turning into an incredulous, blank stare.

For personal use? Would you really spend that much money on ten "useless" sheets of paper?

This person... is he out of his mind?

The round-faced woman's face flushed red and then turned pale, as if she had been slapped in public.

She hesitated for a long time before reluctantly bending over.

He carefully pulled out a strip of Xuan paper, about a hundred sheets, from the bottom of the counter, wrapped in kraft paper with a stiff, reluctant motion.

She pulled out ten sheets, her fingertips twirling the edge of the thin, resilient Xuan paper, and muttered something as she handed them over:

"Here you go! They're precious, don't waste them! Ten bills, one dollar and fifty cents!"

His tone was still firm, but his overbearing attitude had clearly dissipated.

He Yuanchao took the ten sheets of Xuan paper that exuded a faint fragrance of grass and trees, and felt a delicate and warm touch on his fingertips.

He carefully rolled it up and put it into the kraft paper package he had brought, along with the set of writing brushes and ink.

The whole process was unhurried and he seemed oblivious to everyone around him. He paid, received his change, nodded, said "thank you," and turned to leave.

I didn't glance at the various faces behind the counter again.

He pushed open the door and went out, where the sunlight shone on him again.

Behind them, the brief silence in the supply and marketing cooperative was instantly drowned out by an even more heated discussion.

"My God! You really bought it? One dollar and fifty cents! Just for ten sheets of paper?"

"Who's this kid? From the steel mill? He looks pretty smart, why is he doing this wasteful thing?"

"Is he an idiot? He could use that money to buy some meat!"

"Tsk, what are you pretending to be! Workers should act like workers. Trying to imitate intellectuals and spouting literary nonsense, you don't even know your own limitations!"

"Exactly! That paper is so precious, what could he possibly write? He'll probably just use it to paper up his windows, haha!"

……

These discussions drifted clearly out through the open gates of the supply and marketing cooperative, and also reached the ears of Lou Xiao'e, who was hiding behind a telephone pole on a street corner, watching nervously.

She watched He Yuanchao push the cart out, her face still bearing that calm and indifferent expression.

It was as if the laughter, doubts, and sarcasm from the supply and marketing cooperative were just a gentle breeze that brushed past his ears, not even stirring the hem of his clothes.

He showed no embarrassment whatsoever, nor any anger at having to save face.

Without any angry rebuttal, he calmly, even with a leisurely stroll, pushed the cart away from the place of trouble.

Lou Xiao'e's tightly furrowed brows relaxed slightly without her realizing it, and a hint of surprise flashed in her eyes that she herself did not notice.

Faced with such blatant contempt and ridicule, this composure...

It seems there really is something unusual about him? My father said he was calm and composed, could it be...?

Was it not a lie? A crack quietly appeared in her preconceived notion that He Yuanchao was a "liar".

……

He Yuanchao pushed his cart, weaving through the bustling crowds on Qianmen Street.

This place is even more bustling than the area in front of the supply and marketing cooperative; the enticing aroma of food wafts from the state-run restaurant.

A long queue formed in front of the grocery store, and the jingling of bicycle bells and people's conversations created a noisy sea.

His gaze swept across the street, and soon he spotted an empty seat at the base of a relatively spacious wall not far from the "Du Yi Chu" shumai restaurant.

Next to me was an old shoe repairman, who was busy tapping the soles of shoes.

This is it.

He Yuanchao propped up the bicycle and locked it securely.

He walked to the base of the wall, looked around, and dragged a broken three-legged stool from a pile of abandoned junk from some shop nearby, using it as a makeshift desk.

He then took the conspicuous kraft paper package from the back seat of the car and carefully unwrapped it.

This action had already attracted the curious glances of several passersby.

He Yuanchao was completely unaware.

He first carefully spread out the ten sheets of snow-white, delicate Xuan paper on the bench, and used two clean pebbles he had picked up to weigh down the four corners to prevent them from being blown away by the wind.

Then, he solemnly took out the small stone inkstone that Lou Zhenhua had rewarded him with, a wolf-hair brush with a smooth, oily handle, and a piece of dark, glossy pine soot ink.

He unscrewed the lid of his military water bottle and poured some water into the inkstone.

Then, he picked up the pine soot ink, suspended his wrist in the air, and began to slowly grind it in the inkstone with even force.

With steady and focused movements, he circled the ink stick and inkstone, making a soft and even "shush" sound as the ink stick rubbed against the inkstone.

The ink gradually spread, from light to dark, transforming into thick black clouds in the clear water, and a refreshing ink fragrance quietly permeated the air.

This demeanor, this outfit, this focused attitude, so oblivious to everyone else—all of this seemed so out of place, so jarring, on the bustling Qianmen Street.

Sure enough, a buzz of discussion soon arose, like flies buzzing around:

"Hey! Look at this guy! What's he doing?"

"Writing calligraphy? Selling calligraphy at a stall? That's novel!"

"Tsk tsk, look at that build, those clothes... a steel mill worker, right? A blacksmith coming here to pretend to be an intellectual and sell his calligraphy? Isn't that like showing off your skills in front of an expert?"

"Exactly! Doesn't he even know where he is? Qianmen Street! There are plenty of knowledgeable people here. What are he trying to fool with his two strokes of the pen?"

"Look at that paper, so white it's dazzling, it must be Xuan paper! They really went all out! Don't waste it!"

"Pretending to be something they're not! They're making ink grinder like they know what they're doing, but who knows what kind of scribbling they'll produce later!"

"Workers should just focus on their jobs. What's with all this fancy stuff? Wouldn't it be better to use that time to screw in a couple more screws?"

"He's probably obsessed with money, thinking writing can make him rich quick? Dream on!"

……

The jeers, ridicule, incomprehension, and jeers of onlookers surged in from all directions like a tide, even more so than inside the supply and marketing cooperative.

Passersby, whether they were well-dressed officials, housewives carrying shopping baskets, or men smoking cigarettes,

They couldn't help but stop and cast glances, some with disdain, some with curiosity, and some simply to watch the spectacle.

He Yuanchao remained deaf to his words.

All his attention seemed to be focused on the rotation of his wrist and the ink in the inkstone that was gradually becoming thicker, darker, and as glossy as lacquer.

The noise from the outside world seemed to be separated from him by an invisible barrier.

His expression was focused, his eyes were calm, and only the steady, rhythmic "shush" sound of grinding continued.

This almost meditative state stirred up ripples in Lou Xiao'e's heart once again, as she peeked out from behind a pillar at the entrance of the "Ruifuxiang" cloth shop diagonally opposite.

She had assumed that He Yuanchao's composure at the supply and marketing cooperative was just a facade, and that in this more blatant environment, he would surely slip up, either showing embarrassment or anger.

Unexpectedly, his composure was so profound! His focus and immersion made it seem as if everything around him was truly irrelevant.

This composure... doesn't seem to be an act at all?

The ink has been ground until thick.

He Yuanchao put down the inkstone, picked up the wolf-hair brush, moistened the brush tip in clear water, and absorbed the excess water.

He closed his eyes slightly, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, his gaze was sharp as lightning.

His entire demeanor changed abruptly, like a sharp sword about to be drawn!

He picked up his brush, dipped it in thick ink, and held it suspended on the snow-white Xuan paper.

Without the slightest hesitation or pause, the pen fell!

"In the ninth year of Yonghe, the year of Guichou, at the beginning of late spring..."

The brushstrokes flow like dragons and snakes! Every word is a gem!

What he wrote was none other than the "Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion," a masterpiece by the calligraphy sage Wang Xizhi that has been admired throughout the ages!

The font used is no longer the sharp, slender, and elegant "Slender Gold" style used on the factory's bulletin board.

Instead, it transformed into a different style—running script!

Wang Xizhi's running script!

The brushstrokes flow lightly across the rice paper, yet penetrate deeply into the paper.

The brushstroke begins with a concealed tip, subtle and restrained;

The brushstrokes are executed with a central tip, resulting in a smooth and vigorous style.

The turns are either square or round, flowing naturally; the ending strokes are either paused or lifted, clean and crisp.

Between the dots and strokes, they are interconnected and flow together.

The handwriting was as elegant as floating clouds and as smooth as flowing water, yet it contained inner strength, dignified yet lively.

A sense of unrestrained elegance and magnanimous spirit, reminiscent of the Wei and Jin dynasty scholars, and the magnanimous sentiments of the Orchid Pavilion gathering, rushes towards you through the flowing ink!