Song Qian Ji watched as the two individuals lightly tapped their toes, their figures floating up effortlessly, stepping directly up the cliff face toward the clouds.
The mountain wall was smooth and barren of trees, normally impassable even for monkeys.
Towering straight up, separated by a sea of clouds, it faced the west window of the Flying Cloud Tower.
If the Calligraphy Sage stood by the window, with his keen eyesight, he could see this cliff face simply by pushing the window open.
The two raised their hands, their sleeves fluttering, and almost simultaneously applied brush to the rock.
Their postures were graceful and natural, showing no visible effort, yet their brush strokes penetrated deep into the cliff.
Rock fragments fell in showers, raising dust and causing the ground to tremble when they landed.
On the towering cliff wall, giant characters appeared as if carved by knife and chisel.
Flying dragons and dancing phoenixes, iron-like strokes, and silver hooks, the energy was overpowering.
The crowd on the meadow was drawn to this spectacle, momentarily forgetting their calligraphy and paintings.
Looking closely, they felt as if the two lines of large characters would burst out from the rock face and press down upon them from the sky, causing them to cheer loudly:
“Excellent foundation! Incredible strength! Writing on stone is not difficult, but doing it in one continuous flow is remarkable, with clear brush strokes, appropriate depth, and uninterrupted artistic intent. Zhao Jin truly deserves to be the youngest Golden Core talisman master in North Heaven Prefecture.”
“Wei Zhan Yang’s line is also exceptional. Every stroke, hook, and dot stands like swords and blades. Even if I were writing on paper, I couldn’t produce such fine characters.”
Song Qian Ji’s seat was positioned far back, and he could only see the bustling crowd ahead.
Ji Chen stood on tiptoe: “What did they write? My cultivation isn’t sufficient, could you help me see?”
Song Qian Ji slightly narrowed his eyes: “Nature’s spirit concentrates on divine elegance.”
“Truly impressive!” Ji Chen sighed, “No matter how many nights others have practiced calligraphy or how many tens of thousands of landscape paintings they’ve laboriously created, they’ll all be outshone by these two at this Dengwen Elegant Assembly.”
Song Qian Ji smiled silently. When writing in the host’s territory, one naturally had to please the host first.
These two applied their brushes with abundant spiritual energy. Unless deliberately damaged, regardless of wind, sun, or rain, this cliff face of Hua Wei Sect would forever bear these two lines of poetry that penetrated the mountain rock.
Beginning by praising the Hua Wei Sect’s exceptional talents and spiritual lands, only then could these lines remain.
“What about the other line?” Ji Chen asked excitedly. “Daoist Song, please look again!”
Song Qian Ji recited: “One glance renders all other mountains small.”
“What magnificent spirit!” Ji Chen said admiringly. “When will I have such skill?”
Song Qian Ji shook his head: “You don’t need to have it.”
What use is a formation master learning talisman crafting?
Ji Chen misunderstood: “Daoist Song, though I may appear fine, wealth is merely external. Only skills one has personally cultivated are reliable. Otherwise, people will mock you, saying that if the same cultivation resources were given to a dog, even the dog would cultivate better than you.”
Song Qian Ji couldn’t help but laugh, followed by a sense of melancholy.
The current Ji Chen was still very young, like a wealthy young master who knew nothing of life’s hardships. Though talkative, his words weren’t nonsensical, which felt somewhat unfamiliar to Song.
When he had known him in his previous life, this man had already set up formations to kill his entire clan, becoming a rogue cultivator, half-mad, and half-drunk every day.
“Don’t laugh, friend. I’ve observed that the seating for the calligraphy and painting trial has its rules. The two acknowledged masters, Zhao Jin and Wei Zhan Yang, are seated at numbers one and two, and they can write directly on the cliff face for the Calligraphy Sage to see.” Ji Chen analyzed seriously. “Others are seated according to their talisman dao attainments. I’m a talisman master who can’t write a single talisman. You’re a sword cultivator who’s never written talismans. So we sit at the same table, neither able to copy from the other.”
Song Qian Ji: “…It’s fine, we’ll each paint our own, and honestly take last place with our true abilities.”
There was no more activity on the cliff face.
The two who had left their inscriptions had already floated down from the mountain and were slowly walking toward the meadow by the stream.
Inspired by these two’s uninterrupted artistic flow, some participants who were writing had already finished and set down their brushes, focusing entirely on praising the rock inscriptions. Others who hadn’t finished continued to paint diligently.
Song Qian Ji sat down to fill in the details of the potato flower.
Ji Chen admired it for a moment before exclaiming in amazement—
There was no wind on the paper, yet the flower petals seemed covered in dew as if trembling in the breeze. Every fine hair on the flower stem was painted with meticulous detail.
With a pained expression, he sat down, picked up his priceless Mist Smoke brush, and drew a circle on the paper:
“I didn’t want to participate in this competition—what could I gain except mockery? But the elders in my family insisted I try.”
Having finished his painting, Song Qian Ji set down his brush with satisfaction. While waiting for the ink to dry naturally, he looked at his tablemate’s paper.
The brush strokes penetrated the back of the paper, the artistic intent was rounded and flowing, but indeed, it was just a circle.
“Since you don’t know landscape composition, why not write calligraphy?” Song Qian Ji asked.
“The structure and framework of characters is also a kind of composition.”
Song Qian Ji suddenly understood. Ji Chen’s perception of space was unique; he fundamentally couldn’t draw anything flat. He should be building and constructing. He was a born formation master, a natural genius favored by the Heavenly Dao.
“Although I think you’ve painted very well, with spiritual energy leaping off the page, nevertheless, this potato flower…” Ji Chen chose a more tactful expression. “It’s too novel. Hua Wei Sect has invited ten contemporary calligraphy and painting masters to judge the rankings. They might not be able to accept it.”
Song Qian Ji comforted him: “Most things in life are about participation, not winning.”
Ji Chen nodded: “You’re right. Sometimes the harder you try, the worse it gets.”
Participants at the table in front heard this, turned around and looked at them with immense shock.
Song Qian Ji could read fourteen characters in their eyes:
“Dead pigs aren’t afraid of boiling water; small fry and novices gathered at one table.”
But as the two shared their pessimistic outlook, the atmosphere was surprisingly harmonious.
Song Qian Ji even picked up his brush again and wrote two tiny characters on the other’s paper:
Egg.
Ji Chen clapped in delight: “Brilliant! The circle has become an egg. That’s exactly what I was drawing—an egg.”
As they spoke, a chorus of congratulations and praise rose around them.
Song Qian Ji and Ji Chen certainly didn’t believe this was directed at their egg drawing.
They saw a person wearing a white brocade robe, waving a folding fan, walking through the meadow and crowd, stopping at their table.
Ji Chen was shocked—wasn’t this Zhao Jin, who had left inscriptions on the cliff? He even came personally to guide the bottom-ranking participants.
The person smiled smugly: “Daoist Song, what a coincidence. After our parting at the waterside pavilion by Yaoguang Lake, we meet again.”
Yaoguang Lake pavilion?
Song Qian Ji pondered briefly, vaguely remembering that day wasn’t suitable for collecting clay.
Meng He Ze had obtained many magical tools, while he had received a jade flower.
As for the last two who arrived at the pavilion, he only remembered Zhao Ji Heng carrying many painting scrolls. As for the person before him now, he had no impression whatsoever.
Song Qian Ji asked puzzledly: “Are you a friend of Zhao Ji Heng?”
Zhao Jin’s face darkened: “I am his cousin.”
He thought to himself, this person could remember a nobody like Zhao Ji Heng, yet couldn’t remember me?
It must be that fortune’s wheel has turned today, and having lost his glory from the pavilion, he deliberately insulted me.
In truth, if he had been gifted a reclining chair or a hoe, Song Qian Ji would not only have recognized him but would have thanked him from the bottom of his heart.
Zhao Jin glanced behind him, and Zhao Ji Heng, receiving the signal, darted forward.
With quick eyes and hands, he snatched Song Qian Ji’s painting, held it high, and displayed it in all directions:
“Song Qian Ji, I wondered why a sword cultivator would skip the martial trial and dare to register for calligraphy and painting. I thought you might paint something impressive, but you only know how to paint wildflowers.”
Ji Chen grabbed back the thin paper, seriously correcting him: “Daoist friend, it’s not a wildflower, it’s a potato flower. I didn’t recognize it either, thanks to Daoist Song’s broad knowledge…”
Zhao Ji Heng feigned surprise: “Who do we have here? It’s the little immortal Ji, who after twelve years of struggling to learn talisman dao, can’t write half a talisman. My apologies. Your father was also a formidable figure in his day, it’s just a pity he left too early.”
Merry laughter erupted around them.
Ji Chen’s face turned red.
Song Qian Ji smiled: “Some people simply have later enlightenment, achieving greatness later in life.”
Ji Chen looked at him gratefully.
Zhao Jin gave another signal with his eyes, and Zhao Ji Heng grabbed Ji Chen’s painting from the table, slapping it down and laughing loudly:
“Everyone, look! It’s an egg!”
The crowd excitedly gathered around to admire the round, glossy egg, nearly laughing to tears.
“Potato flower and egg,” Zhao Jin said with a calm smile. “You two truly deserve to share a table.”
“Maintain order,” a steward at the edge coughed lightly. “Participants who have finished, please submit your work and leave promptly.”
Yet he showed no intention of intervening.
Song Qian Ji and Ji Chen submitted their works amid bursts of laughter.
Ji Chen said: “I’m used to it, but how are you, Brother Song?”
His form of address had already changed from “Daoist Song” to “Brother Song” after the other had spoken up for him.
“Why not recite with me: ‘When others get angry, I don’t; if I were to die of anger, who would take my place? Besides, it harms the spirit and wastes energy…'”
Song Qian Ji knew that once he started talking, it would be hard to stop him, so he interrupted:
“Shall we go watch the Zither trial?”
“Excellent! Listening to the zither can calm the mind, perfect for us.”
***
“What did Song Qian Ji write? Did he draw any talismans? How was his work?”
In the Flying Cloud Tower, the Calligraphy Sage fired off three questions in succession.
The Academy Principal didn’t know how to answer: “…He didn’t write characters. He painted a flower.”
“What flower?”
“A potato flower.”
The Calligraphy Sage was startled: “Which type of potato flower?”
The Principal replied helplessly: “You’ve forgotten, there’s only one kind of potato flower in the world—the most common one.”
The Calligraphy Sage said angrily: “What’s that boy up to? Quickly bring me that damned potato flower!”
The Principal complied, thinking to himself, you can scold Song Qian Ji all you want, but what did the innocent potato flower do?
“Never mind, I’ll go see for myself,” the Calligraphy Sage suddenly stood up.