Taking Liu Yifei back to Northeast China for the Chinese New Year has sent the entire internet into

Shen Weimin held the celadon cup, skimmed the tea foam from the lid, and lingered his gaze on Fang Yu for a couple more seconds.

We were just talking about the theme song for "The Forbidden City," and Chen Daoming brought up the topic.

If it were one of the younger guys in the industry, they would have already made a solemn pledge.

Fang Yu only said to write a small sample so that the project team could hear it.

The words left room for maneuver, without putting himself on a pedestal.

This kid is reliable.

Chen Daoming lifted the thin blanket from his knees, stood up with the armrests, and smoothed out the hem of his clothes with one hand.

"We've almost finished our tea." He beckoned, "Xiao Fang, come to the study."

He Zheng stroked the stubble on his chin, remaining motionless.

"What are you going to the study for? Old Chen, I'm already tired of looking at your few Duan inkstones and old Huizhou ink."

"Still showing off today?"

Chen Daoming glanced at him.

"Who's showing off those things to you? I've been eyeing Xiao Fang's calligraphy and paintings for over half a month."

"Now that you've come in, you should at least leave me one."

The rough pottery cup in He Zheng's hand stopped in mid-air.

His gaze was fixed on Fang Yu, and his thick eyebrows furrowed together.

That's a huge leap.

In the path of calligraphy and painting, the most dangerous thing is to be "superficial".

A singer in their early twenties spends their time writing songs, singing, appearing on variety shows, and doing business, their time already fragmented.

Who has the time to sit down and meticulously craft each stroke?

Zhou Yuanshan stopped playing with the Bodhi seed and suddenly laughed.

"Now that you mention it, I remember."

"I came across Brother Fang's live stream around the Chinese New Year period."

"He painted a picture of the God of Wealth, and a boss immediately offered three million to take it away."

Shen Weimin frowned.

Three million? For a freshly painted picture of the God of Wealth?

He looked Fang Yu up and down.

He Zheng had seen far too many cases of fake online traffic and fans spending money to create hype in the entertainment industry.

But to claim three million for a picture of the God of Wealth drawn in a live broadcast is simply an overstatement.

Chen Daoming walked out with his hands behind his back.

"What you hear with your own ears doesn't count."

"Is it real skill or just for show?" He didn't even turn his head. "Go to the study, spread out some paper, and you'll know immediately."

Liu Yifei sat down next to Fang Yu and glanced at him sideways.

Back in Kaoshantun, he would write calligraphy and paint for the villagers, and they would all support him, whether it was good or bad, just to celebrate.

Those seated here today are directors from Beijing's film and television circle, documentary experts, and major investors.

This spectacle is even more imposing than walking the red carpet at a film festival.

Fang Yu, however, felt no burden. He stood up, raised his hand towards the group, and spoke frankly:

"Alright, then I'll make a fool of myself."

The group entered the study.

The sandalwood scent was stronger than outside.

Fang Yu stepped across the threshold and glanced around the room.

The three-sided, floor-to-ceiling display shelves are filled with scrolls and thread-bound books.

The corners of the top few hanging scrolls are dark.

A large four-foot scroll of calligraphy hangs directly opposite the door, its characters bold and powerful.

Fang Yu paused for a moment before the words.

He Zheng leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed.

Shen Weimin stood beside the bookshelf with his hands behind his back.

Zhou Yuanshan found a southern-style official's hat chair and sat down, continuing to spin the Bodhi beads.

Chen Daoming took out a roll of raw Xuan paper from the cabinet and spread it out on the long table.

The paper is tough and absorbs ink well.

He was about to take the ink stick.

"I'll do it." Liu Yifei stepped forward and casually rolled up the sleeves of her camel-colored trench coat.

She added half a spoonful of water to the inkstone and moved the ink stick in a steady circular motion with her wrist to grind it.

Fang Yu had done this job in his hometown before, so he was very familiar with it.

The pine smoke dissipated, and the ink was thick, black, and shiny.

Chen Daoming looked at the Duan inkstone. "It's ground evenly."

Liu Yifei pursed her lips and didn't respond.

She could sense the quietness emanating from He Zheng's side behind her; they were waiting to see what would happen.

Fang Yu used two paperweights to hold down the corners of the paper.

The brush tip rolls through the inkstone, absorbing the ink thoroughly, and then it is gently scraped off the excess ink with a scrape at the edge.

The pen tip is raised, and a single drop of ink is gathered.

He straightened his back, his wrists hanging in the air.

"Teacher Chen, what should we write?"

"Whatever you want." Chen Daoming rested his palm on the back of the chair.

Fang Yu's gaze fell on the central scroll on the wall.

"Then I'll just write four characters. If I mess it up, please forgive me."

Chen Daoming laughed and scolded, "Stop talking nonsense and get to work."

Fang Yu steadied his breathing, focused his energy in his dantian, and let his suspended wrist drop.

The pen tip pressed into the paper, making a clean cut.

Just as the ink was about to spread outwards, it was firmly controlled within the strokes by the strength of the wrist, not crossing the boundary even slightly.

Yan style regular script.

Life is like a play.

The brushstrokes are bold and vigorous, and the structure of the characters is broad and expansive.

Each horizontal stroke begins with a concealed tip and ends cleanly.

The vertical strokes are executed with a straight, forceful downward motion, appearing as solid as if they were nailed into the paper.

The strokes are powerful and steady when they are flicked out.

After finishing the last stroke, Fang Yu placed the pen on the pen mountain.

The paper glistened with a damp sheen, and four large characters stood proudly on the desk.

No one spoke in the study.

The pendulum of the self-ringing clock swayed from side to side, and the Bodhi beads that Zhou Yuanshan was playing with in his hand finally stopped.

Zhou Yuanshan was the first to move.

He bent down, pressed his face close to the paper, and stared at the horizontal stroke with a hook in the character "戏" (xi, play) for several seconds.

He straightened up, then took half a step back and looked her over from head to toe.

"Wow..." Zhou Yuanshan said, "If this calligraphy by Yan Zhenqing were just a sham, I'd be willing to raise my paddle if I took it to an auction house and said it was left by some Hanlin scholar from the Qing Dynasty."

He turned to Chen Daoming and smiled, "Old Chen, you've been thinking about this for almost half a month, and this is definitely worth it."

He Zheng stepped out from the door frame and walked over.

He stood before the desk, looked down at the words, looked up at Fang Yu, and then looked down at the words again.

The two characters "戏" (play) and "生" (life) made him look at them over and over again several times.

"You kid, are you really only twenty-four this year?" He Zheng stroked his chin, finally managing to utter a question after a long pause.

Fang Yu wiped his hands and said casually, "It's genuine, no doubt about it. Or I can show you my ID."

He Zheng waved his hand, took two steps back, laughed self-deprecatingly, and shut his mouth completely.

Beside the antique shelf, Shen Weimin still stood with his hands behind his back.

From his vantage point, he had a complete view of the calligraphy's grandeur. Its structure was upright, its essence profound.

This is a confidence that an artist who runs around to different venues and attends events every day could not possess; it is the result of real years of experience.

Just now in the tea room, his attitude towards "writing a small sample to try" was open but reserved.

Now, Shen Weimin lowered his hands from behind his back, shifted his gaze from the calligraphy copybook to Fang Yu's face, and a genuine sense of calculation appeared in his eyes.