The dating reality show host just wanted to give up, but the rich girl fell for him.

The lively atmosphere in the courtyard house instantly quieted down after Zhou Yang's abrupt and angry rebuke.

The diners at the tables closest to the cashier all stopped using their chopsticks to pick up meat.

While chewing on the soft, melt-in-your-mouth pork belly, everyone stared at the strange old man holding a magnifying glass with amusement.

The autumn sunlight filtered through the bare branches of the old locust tree in the yard, casting dappled patterns on the gray-blue floor tiles.

A cold wind swirled by, carrying a faint scent of wood chips that mingled with the rich aroma of meat wafting from the kitchen, creating a comforting and reassuring atmosphere.

But in Zhou Yang's nasal cavity, these smells were all a desecration of high art.

He sneered and steadily brought the priceless magnifying glass made of mutton-fat jade in his hand to the Xuan paper on the wall.

The miniature spotlight on the lens cast a blinding white circle, magnifying the character "肉" (meat) written in thick ink before my eyes without any blind spots.

Zhou Yang narrowed his bloodshot old eyes slightly.

He knows all too well the methods modern people use to forge things.

If it is a counterfeit printed by machine inkjet, under strong light and high magnification, fine, dull pixel particles will inevitably be left on the paper surface.

If the brushstrokes are stiffly traced using a tracing pad underneath, the flow of the brush will inevitably feel sluggish.

Those slight pauses caused by hesitation and deliberate imitation are as obvious as black dots on white paper to an expert.

A confident sneer played on Zhou Yang's lips.

He was ready to expose the ridiculous scam the moment he saw the flaw, ruining the reputation of the arrogant young boss.

however.

When his gaze, through the highly transparent lenses, truly focused on that jet-black ink mark.

The cold smile on Zhou Yang's face suddenly froze without warning.

Time seemed to stand still at that moment.

In the magnifying glass's field of view, there are no machine-printed pixels, nor even the slightest trace of sluggishness in the depiction.

There was only one stroke of the brush, crisp, sharp, and executed in one go, like a sword being drawn from its sheath.

Zhou Yang's pupils suddenly contracted, and his heart skipped a beat.

He straightened up abruptly, as if pricked by a needle, and left the counter.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the corners of his eyes vigorously with his free left hand, as if he couldn't believe what he had just seen.

"My eyes are blurry... I must not have slept well last night, my presbyopia is acting up."

Zhou Yang muttered to himself, but his breathing unconsciously became a little rapid.

He took a deep breath of the cool air, which smelled of food, and forcibly suppressed the inexplicable panic rising in his heart.

Then, he bent down again and pressed the magnifying glass firmly against it.

This time, he looked at it more carefully and with greater focus than before.

The lens moved slowly, inch by inch, like a snail, following the strokes of the character "肉" (meat).

As his gaze shifted, Zhou Yang's expression changed from stiff to gradually revealing undisguised astonishment.

He could see very clearly that the ink used was of extremely poor quality.

It lacks the weighty feel of top-grade Huizhou ink, which is light, black, and has a faint purple sheen.

This is a large bottle of low-quality chemical ink that you can buy for a dozen yuan at any stationery store.

Not only was the ink of poor quality, but the Xuan paper used to hold the ink was also the cheapest machine-made rough-edged paper.

This type of paper has coarse fibers and extremely poor water absorption. If you are not careful, the ink will spread uncontrollably on the paper surface like a spider web.

But it is precisely this piece of calligraphy written with the cheapest materials.

Under the magnifying glass, however, it reveals a chilling level of control.

The ink, upon contact with the rough paper, didn't even have time to spread haphazardly before being dragged forward by an extremely powerful wrist force.

His first stroke was like a thunderclap, and his last stroke was like a sudden downpour.

Without the slightest hesitation, the brushstrokes flowed smoothly like clouds and water, completed in one go.

Because the pen moved too fast and too forcefully, fine, dry white lines, like those from a knife or axe, were even left on the paper.

What profound skill in suspending the wrist must this require?

What level of mastery and freedom of brushwork is required for this?

Zhou Yang's wrist began to tremble slightly uncontrollably, and the tiny white light that hit the rice paper also began to flicker on the wall.

He swallowed hard, his gaze shifting from the word "meat" to the four large characters next to it: "Today's Menu".

The more he looked, the heavier his breathing became.

The more he looked, the more violently his heart pounded in his chest, as if someone were beating a war drum inside.

"This is impossible..."

Zhou Yang's lips turned slightly pale as he repeated the words to himself.

As a leading figure in the Chinese calligraphy and painting world, he has devoted most of his life to studying calligraphy and has profound knowledge of various fonts.

He had naturally copied the Slender Gold style of calligraphy countless times.

He knew all too well how high the bar was for this type of font.

Modern calligraphers writing in the "Slender Gold" style often focus entirely on the turns and pauses of the strokes in pursuit of a similar appearance.

The characters he writes may look decent on the surface, but they always carry an inescapable air of craftsmanship.

It's like a meticulously crafted puppet, soulless and lifeless.

But the words on the menu completely overturned his understanding.

Its strokes do not deliberately pursue textbook-like standards and norms, but instead carry a sense of casualness and looseness.

But beneath this casualness lies a haughty pride that looks down on the world.

Every stroke, every turn.

They all exude a sense of vicissitudes, having weathered two generations of storms, and a kind of lofty and arrogant imperial spirit!

This is not writing.

This is like using the roughest ink to forcefully carve the inherent arrogance and loneliness into this cheap rice paper.

Zhou Yang felt as if a thunderbolt had struck his mind.

"This is practically Emperor Huizong of Song reincarnated!"

Once this utterly absurd thought arises in your mind, it grows wildly like weeds, impossible to suppress.

A fine layer of cold sweat had appeared on his forehead without him noticing.

Cold sweat trickled down the wrinkles on his face, dripping onto the collar of his elegant Tang suit, spreading into a small, dark stain.

But he was completely unaware.

He stared intently at the yellowed menu, like a fanatical believer.

From "Kung Pao Chicken" to "Boiled Cabbage in Clear Broth", and then to the date number casually sketched at the bottom.

Every word relentlessly strikes at the artistic worldview he has upheld for over fifty years.

They are all tearing his proud knowledge of traditional Chinese culture to shreds.

Standing to the side, Jiang Ruoyun took in all of Zhou Yang's reactions.

She held the glass of lemonade, took a small sip, and casually tapped her pale fingers on the glass.

She didn't speak, but quietly watched the master's collapse with a detached, theatrical gaze.

Jiang Ruoyun doesn't understand the true meaning of calligraphy, nor does she understand the beginning and ending strokes of a brush.

All she knew was that Lin Mo's creations were always the best.

Anyone who dares to nitpick should be prepared to be proven wrong.

Moreover, this slap usually comes very loudly and thoroughly.

The autumn wind seemed to have stopped in the courtyard.

Zhou Yang's legs began to give way uncontrollably, and his knees trembled uncontrollably.

His hands, which had held expensive brushes for years and created countless paintings worth millions, were now trembling violently.

The magnifying glass made of mutton fat jade in my hand inevitably bumped against the solid wood cash register due to trembling.

It emitted a series of muffled, disorderly "thump-thump-thump" sounds.

The old man's face, which had been flushed with anger, had now lost all color and turned as pale as paper.

He is a national treasure-level painter and a visiting professor sought after by major art academies.

Normally, high-ranking officials and nobles would have to wait in line for months to book a piece of his calligraphy.

But now.

He actually found himself in this small alleyway restaurant filled with the smell of cooking oil.

In front of a tattered menu with a few oil stains, written on cheap ten-yuan Xuan paper.

I truly felt a terrifying sense of oppression that made me want to kneel down and worship!

The arrogant attitude he had when he pushed his way through the crowd and barged in, and the haughty demeanor he displayed when he pointed at Jiang Ruoyun and spouted nonsense.

Faced with overwhelming power, they vanished instantly.

Zhou Yang felt a tightness in his chest, and his throat was so dry that he couldn't even utter a complete sentence.

His mouth was wide open, like an old fish out of water and thrown onto the beach, only able to make hoarse gasps.

The diners around them, who were eating, finally realized that something was wrong.

This old man was just shouting with great vigor that he wanted to expose fakes, so why does he suddenly seem like he's lost all his strength?

Seeing Zhou Yang trembling violently in front of a wall, his face pale and unable to even stand steadily.

The guests at the closest tables were startled.

"Oh my god, does this old man have some kind of heart condition?"

"Get away from here, or he'll lie down on the ground and complain that we're making too much noise eating and that it's made him sick."

"These days, the tricks used to stage accidents are getting more and more sophisticated; you can't even have a peaceful meal at a restaurant."

The diners muttered amongst themselves as they pulled out their chairs and shrank back as if avoiding a plague.

The area around the previously crowded checkout counter suddenly became much vacant.

Zhou Yang was left all alone, leaning against the counter, trembling like a leaf swaying in the autumn wind.

Jiang Ruoyun frowned slightly.

She could also tell that the old man was acting strangely; if something happened to him in the shop, it would be a real problem.

She put down her water glass, just about to offer a reminder.

Just then.

The heavy cotton curtain leading to the kitchen was slowly lifted from the inside.

Accompanied by a crisp sound of porcelain clashing.

Lin Mo was carrying a plate of freshly cooked, bright red and tempting sweet and sour pork ribs.

In his other hand, he casually held a gray rag used for wiping the table.

His steps were steady, and his expression revealed a habitual laziness and nonchalance.

And so, slowly, it came into everyone's view.