Zhou Cheng naturally had little interest in practicing calligraphy.
In his previous life, he had spent nearly a hundred years writing with a brush. A Grandmaster's essence, energy, and spirit had long since seeped into every stroke, and even after coming to this world, the spirit steeped into his bones had not faded in the slightest.
When it came to his actual mastery of calligraphy, there were probably few in the world who could compare with him.
But Father Huang's stubborn enthusiasm for teaching was simply too great. Though Zhou Cheng was impatient, he could hardly snub the old man outright.
Writing seriously was out of the question. If he truly displayed his full ability, he might frighten the old man.
So Zhou Cheng chose wild cursive. Ignoring Father Huang's chatter about how to hold and wield the brush, he picked it up and dashed off a flurry of strokes.
At first, Father Huang was quite displeased. He thought his younger grandson was clever enough but far too impetuous, nowhere near as steady and grounded as his elder grandson, Tu Nan.
But when Zhou Cheng casually tossed the brush aside, Father Huang lowered his gaze to the paper.
One glance left him utterly stunned.
Across the sheet of Xuan paper, the ink lay in uneven clusters, the characters varying in size. At first glance, it looked like a mischievous child's idle scribbles.
But Father Huang had spent most of his life in scholarly pursuits, practicing calligraphy for decades and studying it for just as long. He could hardly boast about his own accomplishments, but his eye for appreciating it was genuine.
Even though Zhou Cheng had deliberately concealed his skill, the essence and spirit revealed in his strokes, the unbroken vitality flowing between the characters, still seemed to shine.
Coming