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Such a forced approach was bound to have some flaws. Yu Chen worried that he might not do it well enough, so he kept a certain degree of watch over him.

Under Yu Chen's gaze, Wang Yang spread out the trimmed plum blossom paper, placed a stick of Pinecloud Ink into the inkstone, and slowly ground the ink. He picked up a wolf-hair brush, dipped it full of ink, and wrote stroke by stroke the ideas he had heard from Yu Chen, along with the insights he had gradually worked out through his own daily study and contemplation.

His intense concentration, coupled with the expenditure of mental strength, caused each character to emit a faint glow. The sound of jade striking stone rang out, and milky-white Treasure Blossoms bloomed amid the characters, their branches and leaves spreading as they released a delicate fragrance of ink.

As he wrote, the forms of Wang Yang's characters grew ever more elegant and began to radiate a subtle wondrous power. From any direction, from any angle, one would feel that each character faced directly toward them.

These were precisely the three great phenomena of Confucian calligraphy: sound upon brushfall, flowers blooming from a masterful brush, and naturally formed character bones.

Yu Chen raised his brows and smiled. "So you broke through in the way of calligraphy at a time like this?"

At White Deer Academy, where Wang Yang was, another great Confucian also raised his head. Looking toward Wang Yang, at the ink-dark literary qi gradually flying forth, he could not help sighing. "Who would have thought that Wang Yang, while writing down his own insights, would also gather the literary qi of ink traces? He truly is one favored by fate. Whatever he does, Heaven lends him aid."

As he spoke, he took