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Chapter 142: 055 Blue Crystal Flower, let Classmate Ren also take a look at Classmate Bai’s handwriting (Part 2)_2

Jiang He sat next to Bai Lian, flipping through a large dictionary expressionlessly.

“During your winter vacation, the Jiangjing app will have a local training camp,” Jiang Fulai reached for Bai Lian’s phone and flipped through it a bit, “It’s quite helpful for chemistry.”

This was the first time Bai Lian had heard about the training camp, and she pondered it.

Nine o’clock.

The library closed.

Jiang Fulai watched Bai Lian pack her bookbag, his phoenix eyes slightly narrowed, and after a moment’s thought, he said, “Chi Yundai made a lot of delicious food today.”

Chi Yundai was the best cook Bai Lian had ever encountered.

She hesitated a bit about the meal he prepared but still “swooshed” to zip up her jacket and slanted her head towards Jiang Fulai with a hint of regret, “Then you’ll have to go eat with Jiang Xiaoniao. I have to go back and have dinner with my grandfather.”

Ji Heng had been restless these past few days.

Bai Lian would go back every night to have dinner with him.

“Your grandfather hasn’t eaten yet?” Jiang Fulai looked at her.

“Mhm, you guys go eat,” Bai Lian waved behind her, “I’ll take the bus back.”

Having said that, the bus came to a stop, and Bai Lian got on board with her backpack.

Jiang Fulai watched expressionlessly as the bus swayed into the distance, leaving him staring at its rear.

Next to him, Jiang He crouched on the ground.

He silently looked up at Jiang Fulai.

Jiang Fulai looked down at him with a high-and-mighty gaze and let out a cold laugh, “Are you crouching down to avoid being found by someone?”

The next day, Tuesday.

Bai Lian didn’t have lunch because she had to reshoot the promotional video.

It was still the same photographer from last time; he recognized Bai Lian and was surprised, “Bai can also write in the Liang style?”

Before Bai Lian could speak, the excited principal beside her explained to the photographer, “Yes, and Bai writes the Liang style very well.”

Today was for reshooting the scene of writing in large characters.

Bai Lian took off her school uniform jacket, revealing a light white shirt underneath, and then picked up a wolf-hair brush.

“Write on this board,” said the photographer in a gentle voice, naturally obliging since it was a newcomer recommended by the principal.

Bai Lian stood in front of the board.

She held down the rice paper with one hand and lifted the wolf-hair brush with the other, her eyes and brows lowered.

Her hair was loosely secured by a wooden hairpin.

The sun filtered through the trees and the window, casting mottled shadows on her, shrouding her in a hazy and mysterious aura.

Without any extra movements like those of Ren Wanxuan, everyone on set involuntarily held their breath.

She always had an inexplicable quality about her that seemed to link with the entire Xiangcheng in countless ways.

This sense of a collision between the past and the present was all too obvious.

Without hearing the next step for a long while, Bai Lian looked up, asking in surprise, “Can I start now?”

“Oh,” the photographer came back to his senses, “Yes, you can start. Just like that, it feels great.”

He turned on the camera.

Only then did Bai Lian lift her wrist and write a line on the paper—

“[After drinking wildly to the heart’s content with enemies, one man, one arrow, stormed through Fengdu]”

This was the line from a stone in their school, and also the one that Ren Wanxuan had tried and failed to write well over and over again that day.

Bai Lian completed it in one go.

As she wrote, her strokes were fluid like drifting clouds and flowing water, her calligraphy robust and forceful. She had felt an overwhelming presence while writing with black ink for the principal the day before, and this was nothing compared to today when she was using the wolf-hair brush she was most comfortable with!

At a glance, each character seemed to exude an aura of ferocity and pride.

This line of text made it easy to envision scenes of brave combat.

Such was the charm of calligraphy.

This was the resonating passion etched in the DNA of the people, felt through just a line of writing.

Bai Lian, after writing, looked at the line for a while and was dissatisfied. Then she turned her head towards the photographer, “I want to do it over.”

Since this was for promotion, it didn’t need to be perfect.

She had not removed the Iridium bracelet from her wrist, and the brushstrokes hadn’t quite reached the necessary strength.

Bai Lian was about to take the inkstone and crumple the paper into a ball.

The principal hurriedly stopped her, snatching the paper from Bai Lian’s hands, “Do it over? It’s written so well, why would you want to redo it?”

The photographer also replayed the video.

He didn’t understand calligraphy, but could feel the impact from Bai Lian’s writing.

Last time they filmed Ren Wanxuan, he knew that calligraphers needed to be in the right state of mind to write well; a good state meant good writing, no state meant dissatisfaction no matter the effort, as was the case with Ren Wanxuan.

If Bai Lian’s writing, as impressive as it was, got destroyed, what if she couldn’t reproduce the same effect?

“Let’s just leave it like this, Bai,” the principal carefully dried the ink, his eyes never leaving the piece of writing, “You go back to your class; this writing will remain as it is.”