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

The atmosphere completely relaxed.

Four people, three calligraphy works.

Chen Daoming left behind the book "Life is Like a Play".

Zhou Yuanshan received the book "Harmony Brings Prosperity".

He Zheng took the lyrics to "A Laughter in the Vast Sea".

Shen Weimin took away "The Forbidden City".

After a round, no one came empty-handed.

Strictly speaking, Shen Weimin took more than one piece of calligraphy.

He also conveniently opened up the possibility of getting the theme song for "The Forbidden City" out.

During his visit, Fang Yu barely had time to drink a few sips of tea before he had already meticulously arranged the walls of the study rooms of several bigwigs in Beijing's elite circles.

Chen Daoming poured the half-cup of cold tea into a water bowl and glanced at the group.

"You guys, stop having so much fun."

He spoke in a calm and unhurried tone.

"We spent so much time scrambling for it, but we ended up buying the box and not the pearl."

He Zheng put down his teacup and looked up at him.

"Old Chen, what do you mean by that?"

Zhou Yuanshan rubbed the Bodhi beads with his thumb and chuckled.

"Old Chen, are you implying something?"

Chen Daoming looked at Fang Yu.

"Xiao Fang's calligraphy just now truly demonstrates skill."

"But if you ask me..."

Chen Daoming paused for a moment.

"His paintings are even better than his calligraphy."

After he said that, the study fell silent.

A dozen minutes ago, Fang Yu's calligraphy in Yan style, thin gold style, and running script had already stunned several people.

Now Chen Daoming says that his paintings are even better than his calligraphy.

This is a little scary.

Zhou Yuanshan spoke first.

"Old Chen, before I came in, I said someone offered three million for that picture of the God of Wealth, but I was just joking."

"But the words have gotten to this point."

As he spoke, he glanced at Fang Yu.

"If the painting is even more exquisite than the calligraphy, then three million would be an understatement."

He Zheng rested his hands on his knees, his gaze also falling on Fang Yu.

"Characters are about structure, paintings are about artistic conception."

"You not only have good handwriting, but you also have some real skills in painting?"

Fang Yu leaned against the desk, his left hand in his coat pocket.

"Just scribbling a few lines since I had nothing else to do."

That's an understatement.

But none of the people in the room dared to take this as mere "nonsense".

If they had heard Chen Daoming praise Fang Yu like this before entering the study, most of them would have just taken it as polite talk.

Some might even think that the image of the God of Wealth in the live stream was entirely due to fan support and hype.

But ironically, Yan style calligraphy, thin gold calligraphy, running script, and those few lines of poetry that overshadow the 600-year history of the Forbidden City are all right in front of me.

Black and white words cannot be faked.

The way everyone looked at Fang Yu had long since changed.

"Brother Fang, now that you're here, don't hold back."

Zhou Yuanshan stood up and walked to the desk.

"Old Chen has already put it this way, if you don't show us your skills, we won't feel at ease leaving this courtyard today."

He Zheng nodded in agreement.

"Old Chen has a sharp eye; the things he praises to the skies are never wrong."

"Give us one, let us see something new."

Shen Weimin switched the reel to his left hand and put his right hand behind his back.

"Xiao Fang, don't worry."

"Just draw whatever you want; consider this just an exchange."

Several bigwigs in Beijing's elite circles took turns showering Fang Yu with compliments.

Fang Yu knew exactly what was going on.

Teacher Chen's ladder was almost touching the soles of his feet.

If you don't climb up and show off your skills now, you won't have a good ending to this game.

Since we're already here, let's make it a perfect occasion.

Fang Yu turned his head to look at Liu Yifei.

Liu Yifei immediately understood.

She stepped forward and replaced the sheet with a new four-foot-long sheet of raw Xuan paper.

Two paperweights, one on the left and one on the right, are used to hold down the corners of the paper.

Chen Daoming turned around and gave instructions to the person outside the door.

"Go get the paint."

"Azure, gamboge, cinnabar..."

"Teacher Chen, there's no need to trouble yourself."

Fang Yu called out to him.

"No need for paint, just use this."

As he spoke, he pointed to the inkstone.

Only a small amount of black ink remained in the inkstone.

That was ground by Liu Yifei just now.

Nowadays, some of the moisture has evaporated, and the ink has become thick and shiny.

Chen Daoming stopped in his tracks, looked back at the inkstone, and then at Fang Yu.

"Pure ink painting?"

Fang Yu nodded.

There are many categories of traditional Chinese painting.

Heavy color meticulous brushwork, emphasizing the application of color.

The freehand style emphasizes leaving blank spaces.

Pure ink painting doesn't rely on color to grab attention; it focuses entirely on the layers and nuances of ink color.

Thick, light, dry, wet, burnt.

If you don't control it properly, the paper can easily become a smudged mess.

"OK."

Chen Daoming didn't ask any more questions, took two steps back, and made way for Fang Yu.

Fang Yu picked up the sheep-hair brush from the table and began to write.

He first washed the brush tip in the water basin, squeezed out the water, and then dipped only the tip of the brush in a little thick ink.

The eyes of all six people in the room were fixed on his hands.

Fang Yu had no ideas.

No need to sketch with a pencil.

With a flick of the wrist, the pen tip landed directly on the paper.

The first stroke is executed with the brush tip centered.

The ink blot drew an outline on the paper that was neither round nor square.

He Zheng's eyelids twitched.

What is this?

Stone?

Fang Yu didn't stop.

The sheep's hair brush moves horizontally across the paper.

With a press of the brush belly, the ink immediately spreads.

A blob of ink.

Two ink blots.

Three ink blots.

They vary in size and shape.

The dark, glossy areas are thick with ink, almost dripping.

The dry, rough areas reveal the white of the paper.

The pieces are placed at varying heights, looking like a few blobs of ink that were just randomly put there.

In no time, six ink balls were laid out on the paper.

Fang Yu switched to a fine wolf-hair brush, dipped it in thick ink, and added a horizontal and a vertical line to the top of each ink blob, along with a few short ink dots.

Zhou Yuanshan squinted for a moment and finally figured out what was going on.

"persimmon?"

With stems added, the six ink blots do indeed resemble a pile of persimmons.

Fang Yu put down the wolf-hair brush.

The entire painting took less than two minutes to complete.

There were no branches, leaves, vines, or baskets, nor any inscriptions or seals.

On a huge sheet of Xuan paper, only six dark persimmons are hanging.

"alright."

Fang Yu brushed the ink off his hand, took two steps back, and gave his seat to the big shots.

The study fell completely silent.

No one spoke just now because the power and scope of the words overwhelmed the entire room.

No one is speaking right now because no one really knows what to say.

He Zheng took a big step forward, his face almost touching the table.

He stared at the darkest persimmon on the far left for a long time, then looked down at the dry, brittle fruit on the far right.

After watching for a full minute, he straightened up and turned to look at Zhou Yuanshan.

The Bodhi beads in Zhou Yuanshan's hand spun rapidly.

He looked at the painting, then at Fang Yu.

He opened and closed his lips twice, but couldn't utter a single word.

Shen Weimin stood still, his hands behind his back.

His gaze swept back and forth between the six ink blots, his expression somewhat somber.

Liu Yifei stood to Fang Yu's side and behind him, without saying a word.

She has little knowledge of traditional Chinese painting.

Looking at the painting on the desk, only two words popped into my mind.

Hasty.

A few blobs of ink.

A few lines.

A three-year-old child dips a brush in ink and scribbles randomly on paper; at first glance, it looks almost the same.

If Fang Yu hadn't personally written those calligraphy pieces just now, she would have suspected that he was playing a prank.