Chapter 147: An Unexpected Favor

“Methods?” Shi Tiexin asked curiously, “What kind of methods could you possibly have? You don’t mean to say you can manipulate the judges?”

“Manipulate the judges? Nonsense! If I had that ability, would I still be entangled with you kids? I’d be off making big money by now! Besides, even if you controlled the judges, what good would it do? Without the golden light appearing, the whole competition would be a joke—completely useless for making a living!”

“So, what’s your plan then?”

“Watch and learn!” Situ Zhennan glanced around, then suddenly his eyes lit up. He approached another work that was currently more popular. Blending into the crowd, he gave a seemingly sincere critique before abruptly shifting tone: “But I think that little shabby piece over there isn’t bad at all—no worse than this one, and even more exquisite in the details!”

Calligraphy enthusiasts immediately asked which shabby piece he meant. Situ Zhennan quickly gathered a group and deliberately raised his voice, leading them in nodding, shaking their heads, and heated debate.

Shi Tiexin was speechless.

Wasn’t this just like the common book review section advertisements in amateur literature circles? Such ads are inefficient, time-consuming, and rarely effective—only new authors just starting out use this tactic. Still, it was pitiful: even my old buddy’s calligraphy needed this kind of promotion. Truly a desperate cry for attention...

Situ Zhennan’s efforts did have some effect, at least gathering a bit of popularity around Shi Tiexin’s work. At its peak, more than ten people clustered around to observe and comment.

Situ Zhennan threw a playful glance at Shi Tiexin, who expressionlessly raised his camera and snapped a confident close-up shot. Framing that photo with a caption reading “Widely praised by all social circles” might actually look somewhat impressive.

Shi Tiexin mused that this photo was probably Situ Zhennan’s greatest gain today. He wondered how many sponsorship points the old bald guy could bluff with just that picture.

Sure enough, this old-fashioned promotion method was still too outdated. Situ Zhennan tried the same trick several more times, but the popularity remained lukewarm, and after a while, he lost heart.

Shi Tiexin seized an opportunity to slip away and resumed watching calligraphy with the park elders. Digging one’s own pit and filling it is ultimately about skill, not tricks. Making a splash in the local contest is worth far more than anything else.

These park elders loved quoting classics and idioms fluently. While Situ Zhennan’s only reward was a photo, Shi Tiexin’s harvest was many small stars of approval.

After a while, Situ Zhennan left in dejection.

Shortly after he departed, a middle-aged man and a young man casually strolled over. Their attire was ancient and elegant—wide sleeves and flowing robes—very retro. Normally, such dress would turn heads. But many visitors in the calligraphy exhibition liked vintage clothing, so such outfits were not unusual. Moreover, the two seemed to have used some technique to diminish their presence.

They passed by effortlessly, leaving no trace, not even stirring a speck of dust.

The middle-aged man, composed and refined, casually asked, “Finished viewing? What are your thoughts?”

“I think Lord Shen of Tumubao really paid big money to invite you as a judge,” the young man replied with a smile. “But since he invited you, it’s like he invited me too. I can’t just work for free, so how about you share some of that appearance fee with me?”

“You’re quite something,” the middle-aged man smiled without offense. “Looks like nothing here caught your eye.”

“My evaluation in six words: grand in appearance, small in skill,” the young man shook his head. “At best, it’s on par with the park elders—nothing remarkable.”

“Look down on the park elders?” The middle-aged man countered. “I also like practicing calligraphy in the park.”

“You’re different,” the young man replied, casually scanning the works. “You’re still young; you’re a long way from earning the title of ‘elder’.”

“You cheeky monkey!” The middle-aged man laughed and resumed his judging.

At that moment, both noticed Shi Tiexin’s piece and simultaneously exclaimed, “Hmm?”

Both were surprised that the other also reacted that way. The middle-aged man asked, “What’s your ‘hmm’ about?”

The young man blinked.

What am I “hmm” about? I’m surprised to see that ‘Good Samaritan’ here. That’s why I said ‘hmm’ casually.

Uh, does that sound a bit unrefined? So he didn’t answer but instead asked, “And what about you?”

“Heh, turning the tables on me!” The middle-aged man leaned in to examine Shi Tiexin’s work carefully. Given his cultivation in the art, he should have been able to judge it quickly. Yet, to the young man’s astonishment, he scrutinized it for quite a while.

Only then did the young man realize that the value of this piece wasn’t just because it came from an acquaintance—it held deeper mystery.

He also leaned in to look closely. The characters were neat, horizontal and vertical strokes well balanced, indicating solid fundamentals. It likely corresponded to a first-level foundation in the perfect elementary art of calligraphy—but nothing more.

First-level perfection? The young man had seen plenty of that; it was nothing extraordinary.

But what was the middle-aged man really seeing?

The young man watched him carefully. After a long observation, the middle-aged man sighed and said, “To recognize the subtle beauties in this piece, you really have improved.”

“Not at all,” the young man humbly replied. “I still need your guidance.”

“Alright, let me explain,” the middle-aged man said seriously. “I’m truly surprised that this peripheral town of Tumubao retains an unbroken literary lineage.”

“Literary lineage?” The young man was startled.

That term isn’t one anyone can claim lightly.

“Yes,” the middle-aged man said, gazing at the piece. “Though naive, it indeed carries the legacy of the great masters, a tradition passed down through the central star script’s orthodox Eight Methods, and it has close ties to my own lineage.”

“Oh?!” The young man widened his eyes and looked again—no, he still couldn’t understand. But he fully trusted the middle-aged man’s words, for he was indeed a legitimate inheritor of the central star script, an orthodox calligrapher.

Forget it, I might as well not take this judge fee; my skills still have a way to go.

The middle-aged man nodded appreciatively. “Tumubao may be a border town, but it’s a branch left from ‘that era’—not to be underestimated. Like a thunderstrike on wood: dead on the outside, alive within. Who knows when the spring breeze and rain will nurture it back to life.”

“You hold this piece in high regard,” the young man said, looking at the name ‘Good Samaritan’ and feeling stirred. “So you intend to award it first place?”

The middle-aged man shook his head firmly. “No. Though it carries the spirit of the masters, it’s still too immature. This work is like you—full of potential but needing more refinement. It doesn’t deserve excessive praise.”

The young man smiled awkwardly.

The middle-aged man continued earnestly, “As a judge, I must be fair. Frankly, many other contestants surpass this one. This work merits only a third prize.”

The young man chuckled, “But looking around, it’s indeed the only one that got both of us to say ‘hmm.’”

“That’s true,” the middle-aged man mused, then an idea sparked within him. “How about we do this…”