The handwriting in Chapter 153 is smudged? Then I'll just write another one on the spot.

Lin Mo lifted the heavy curtain of the kitchen and steadily carried a plate of freshly cooked sweet and sour pork ribs.

The thick, bright red sweet and sour sauce coats the crispy fried pork ribs, and the rising steam and sweet and sour aroma instantly overpower the autumn breeze in the courtyard.

He held a blue-and-white porcelain plate in his left hand and casually pinched a gray cotton rag with a few oil stains in his right.

His steps were unhurried, and his expression revealed a languid indifference that suggested he had seen through the ways of the world.

Lin Mo walked straight to a square table by the window and gently placed the plate of sweet and sour pork ribs down.

"Enjoy your ribs."

The voice was relaxed and calm, carrying a touch of the leisurely atmosphere unique to the alleyways.

The two diners at the table had been waiting eagerly. After thanking them repeatedly, they picked up their chopsticks without hesitation.

Lin Mo casually used the gray rag to wipe up the little bit of soup that had accidentally spilled on the corner of the table.

He was about to turn around and go back to the kitchen to continue preparing the afternoon's ingredients.

A quick glance revealed the bizarre scene at the cashier.

An old man with a full head of white hair, dressed in an elegant Tang suit, looked just like a gecko that had lost its suction cups.

He was pressed awkwardly against the white wall in his house where the menu was hanging, trembling like a leaf.

The group of diners who had been enjoying their meals nearby all held their bowls and shrank back two meters.

Everyone looked at each other, afraid that the old man might suddenly slap them and try to extort money from them.

Jiang Ruoyun stood quietly in the shadows beside the counter.

She just watched the old man quietly, a faint, cold smile on her lips, showing no intention of helping him up.

Lin Mo raised an eyebrow slightly, having roughly guessed what was going on.

He casually draped the gray cloth over his left wrist, took long strides, and slowly walked over.

The soles of the shoes made a slight scraping sound as they stepped on the bluestone slabs.

Lin Mo walked behind Zhou Yang and looked at the old man's nose, which was almost touching the wall.

He extended his left hand, which was still covered with a rag, and casually patted the old man's slightly trembling shoulder twice.

"Old sir."

Lin Mo spoke, his voice clear and gentle, revealing an unpretentious calmness.

This bland voice sounded particularly out of place in front of the cashier, where you could hear a pin drop.

Zhou Yang was still immersed in the immense shock of his soul being violently shaken.

His mind went blank, filled only with the sharp, knife-like strokes of the thin gold calligraphy.

He was suddenly tapped on the shoulder, and he jumped in fright.

"Was the menu burnt because of the steam in the kitchen?"

Lin Mo looked at the yellowed, rough-edged paper on the wall, his tone casually inquisitive.

"Or are you having presbyopia and simply can't see the words clearly?"

He asked very sincerely, completely from the perspective of a restaurant owner, concerned about the customer's eyesight.

These words brought Zhou Yang back to reality.

He turned his head sharply, his old eyes, bloodshot and swollen, fixed on the tall, upright young man in front of him.

The old man's breathing was as heavy as a broken bellows.

He saw clearly the ordinary apron Lin Mo was wearing, and the greasy rag Lin Mo had draped over his wrist.

But at this moment, there was no trace of the arrogance and disdain he had shown when he barged in.

He felt a tightness in his throat and his lips trembled uncontrollably.

He wanted to ask.

He was eager to know which reclusive master had created this masterpiece of the slender gold calligraphy style, which seemed to carry the vicissitudes of an emperor.

"This young man..."

Zhou Yang swallowed hard, his voice hoarse and distorted, carrying an almost pleading tremor.

"These...the words on the wall...excuse me...?"

He didn't even dare to utter the words "original," for fear of disturbing this sacredness.

however.

Before he could even finish uttering that question filled with awe...

Lin Mo's gaze passed over him and landed on the Xuan paper that he worshipped as if it were a god.

Lin Mo frowned slightly.

The cheap, rough-edged paper was damaged by the moisture from the soup simmering in the kitchen.

In addition, the old man had been too close, and his hot breath hit him.

The ink was already slightly saturated at the edges.

The originally sharp strokes of the brush were now marred by a faint gray halo, making them look rather unsightly.

"It's really dirty."

Lin Mo muttered something under his breath, his tone filled with undisguised disdain.

It's like seeing some kind of garbage that's affecting your appetite.

Zhou Yang was stunned, not immediately understanding the meaning behind Lin Mo's words.

Dirty?

This is a priceless treasure containing the lost essence of the Slender Gold style of calligraphy, enough to drive the entire calligraphy and painting world crazy!

You actually used a word like "filthy" to describe it?!

"and……"

Lin Mo turned his head and glanced at the number plate on the counter.

"The braised pork for lunch is sold out, so there's no point in hanging this menu up."

He made the decision in a calm tone.

"Fine, I'll just rewrite it."

Before he could finish speaking, Lin Mo gave Zhou Yang no time to react.

He stretched out his right hand and grabbed the edge of the yellowed Xuan paper.

In that instant.

Zhou Yang's pupils suddenly dilated to their maximum.

He felt as if all the blood in his body had frozen at that moment.

An indescribable, immense panic overwhelmed him instantly, like a cold tide.

"No!"

Zhou Yang let out a scream of utter despair in his heart.

"That's a national treasure! That's priceless!"

He instinctively reached out to stop it, wanting to protect the fragile sheet of Xuan paper with his own body.

But his weak legs were completely unresponsive at that moment.

They could only watch helplessly as Lin Mo slightly increased the force in his wrist.

"Sizzle—"

A crisp, piercing sound of paper tearing suddenly rang out in the quiet courtyard.

The sound wasn't loud.

But to Zhou Yang, it was as if a bolt of lightning from the heavens had struck him directly on the top of his head.

Lin Mo's movements were swift and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

That "original" painting that Zhou Yang worshipped and even wanted to kneel down and kowtow to.

Lin Mo roughly tore it off the white wall.

Only a small piece of torn paper and a trace of dried glue remained on the wall.

Zhou Yang felt as if his heart, along with that piece of paper, had been brutally torn apart.

But the nightmare he was experiencing had only just begun.

Lin Mo held the torn-off Xuan paper in his hand, not even glancing at it twice.

He casually pulled his five fingers inward, applying slight force.

A series of crunching sounds of paper being rubbed together rang out.

That masterpiece of the Slender Gold style calligraphy, characterized by its strong, vigorous strokes and sharp, unrestrained style.

Under the watchful eyes of Zhou Yang, which were practically dripping with blood, it was mercilessly crumpled into a tattered ball.

"Clatter."

Lin Mo treated it like a worthless plastic bag.

With a slight flick of his wrist, he accurately tossed the crumpled paper into a black plastic trash can a meter away.

The crumpled paper fell to the bottom of the bucket with a dull thud.

That calligraphy piece, which could fetch an astronomical price at auction, is now lying quietly alongside a pile of rotten vegetable leaves and used napkins.

It has become utterly worthless.

Zhou Yang stood frozen in place, like a weathered sand sculpture.

A strange "clucking" sound came from his throat, as if something was blocking his trachea.

He opened his mouth wide, but no sound came out.

Jiang Ruoyun leaned against the counter, watching the old man's devastated appearance as if the sky had fallen, a barely perceptible smile flashing in her eyes.

She knows Lin Mo too well.

This guy always has this infuriatingly relaxed attitude when he does things.

The things you care about most may not even be as important as a roadside stone in his eyes.

The most lethal attack is the one that reduces the distance between dimensions.

Lin Mo completely ignored Zhou Yang, who was already in a semi-conscious state.

He walked straight to the back of the carved wooden cash register.

In the corner of the counter, there was a cheap plastic pen holder.

Lin Mo reached inside and pulled out a calligraphy brush.

This pen looks like one of those cheap, three-for-ten-yuan street vendor items.

The penholder is made of inferior plastic, the sheep hair on the nib is split, and a few hairs have even fallen off the edge.

Next to it was a small, chipped, coarse porcelain bowl, half-filled with the cheapest Yidege ink.

No incense was burned.

No bath was taken.

There was no such thing as calming one's mind or cultivating one's emotions.

Lin Mo just stood there casually.

His left hand was still tightly gripping the gray rag that smelled of cooking oil and soup.

This posture makes him look exactly like a street vendor preparing to keep accounts.

But what seemed normal to the other diners was utterly absurd to Zhou Yang.

Lin Mo took the worn-out calligraphy brush and casually dipped it into the ink in the small, rough porcelain bowl.

The pen tip lightly skimmed the rim of the bowl twice to remove excess ink.

A new sheet of machine-made rough-edged paper, also priced at ten yuan a stack, had already been laid out on the counter.

Lin Mo bent down slightly.

The sleeve of his right hand slipped down naturally, revealing a section of his forearm with smooth lines and strong, powerful muscles.

Just as the pen tip was about to touch the paper.

Lin Mo's originally lazy and nonchalant aura suddenly changed.

Those eyes, which always seemed somewhat nonchalant, suddenly became as sharp as knives.

It was as if some ancient, slumbering beast had suddenly opened its eyes at that moment.

The surrounding noise of the wind and the sounds of diners chewing seemed to be shut out by some invisible force at this moment.

Wrist suspended in the air.

There were no unnecessary probing attempts.

The brush tip landed steadily on the rough Xuan paper.

"brush--"

Begin writing, revealing the tip of the brush as it touches the paper!

The strokes are crisp and clean, without the slightest hesitation.

The inferior ink was instantly suppressed by that terrifying wrist force the moment it came into contact with the paper.

With the wrist flipped and dragged.

Streaks of jet-black ink, like dragons emerging from the sea, roamed wildly across the white paper.

Iron strokes and silver hooks!

Every stroke seems to carry the killing intent of a thousand troops, exuding a sharp and unyielding spirit that cannot be looked at directly.

Strong bones, lean yet vigorous.

The details he had just seen under the magnifying glass were now being reproduced in Zhou Yang's eyes in an extremely direct and shocking way.

No, it's not a replica.

It exuded an aura even more domineering and arrogant than the one on the previous piece of paper!

The pen tip rubs rapidly across the paper, making a soft "shush" sound.

Lin Mo moved too quickly.

It only took a few seconds.

The four large characters "Today's Menu," along with the row of brand-new dish names below, are already prominently displayed on the paper.

An extremely powerful and soul-stirring artistic tension exploded instantly on this inexpensive rice paper!

Even the splitting and shedding of that cheap ten-yuan calligraphy brush were under Lin Mo's terrifying control.

It transformed into the natural, seamless, and chiseled white strokes at the edges of the ink marks.

Finish the last stroke with a return stroke.

Lin Mo casually tossed the brush back into the plastic pen holder, making a soft sound.

He raised his left hand, which was clutching the rag, and casually wiped away non-existent sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Alright, cross out the braised pork and replace it with sweet and sour pork."

Lin Mo looked at the newly written menu and nodded in satisfaction.

His tone remained calm, as if the weather were nice that day.

The autumn wind blew in through the half-open wooden door, brushing against the newly written Xuan paper.

A faint scent of ink mingled with the aroma of meat from the kitchen, filling the air.

Zhou Yang felt as if he had been struck by lightning.

He stared intently at the young man behind the counter, who was wearing an apron and clutching a rag.

The solid fortress of faith in my mind called "calligraphy and painting art".

At that moment, it collapsed with a roar, shattering into dust all over the ground.

He froze on the spot, completely forgetting to breathe.

He witnessed it with his own eyes.

This is a masterpiece worthy of being recorded in the history of Chinese calligraphy.

It really was born from a cook casually writing a grocery list while holding a greasy rag.

This shattered all his understanding of the past fifty-six years and crushed his pride as a master of Chinese studies.

There was a crisp "snap" sound.

Zhou Yang's right hand, which had been trembling violently, finally lost all strength.

That priceless antique magnifying glass with a handle carved from the finest mutton fat jade.

It slipped from his limp fingertips.

It slammed heavily onto the hard bluestone slab.

It instantly shattered into countless glistening fragments on the ground.