Chapter 154 A National Treasure-Level Master Seeks Disciples? No, the Kitchen Doesn't Need an O

The crisp sound of shattering glass was particularly jarring in the courtyard, which was originally filled with the sounds of chewing and laughter.

That antique magnifying glass, worth at least six figures, shattered into countless reflective fragments on the uneven cobblestone slab.

Sunlight hit the broken glass, refracting into tiny, fragmented spots of light.

But Zhou Yang didn't even glance down at it.

This nearly 60-year-old master of traditional Chinese painting, renowned in Beijing and whose paintings can fetch astronomical prices at auction, froze on the spot as if struck by lightning.

He stared intently at the brand-new sheet of Xuan paper on the wall, looking at the ink marks that were not yet completely dry.

That was truly a masterpiece of the "Slender Gold" calligraphy style, imbued with the true intent of an emperor and with a clearly defined structure.

This masterpiece was actually created by a young cook who ran a run-down restaurant. He was holding a greasy rag in his left hand and casually picked up a cheap calligraphy brush that cost ten yuan with free shipping in his right hand, and wrote it as if he were writing on scrap paper.

No need to calm the mind or bathe.

And so, amidst the smell of cooking oil, he created a miracle that drove the art world wild.

Zhou Yang's breathing became heavy, and his chest heaved violently.

A sickly crimson quickly spread around his eyes, and all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head.

"thump!"

Without warning, Zhou Yang's legs went weak, and like a rhinoceros that had completely lost its mind, he lunged forward.

On the bluestone slab, there was still water that had been splashed out while washing vegetables, mixed with a little mud and sand.

Zhou Yang's custom-made, handcrafted trousers were instantly soaked with mud, but he was completely unaware.

He knelt down at Lin Mo's feet and hugged Lin Mo's arm, which was covered in flour.

"master!"

Zhou Yang's voice had completely changed.

His voice was harsh, hoarse, and full of energy, yet it carried a chillingly fervent passion.

"How did you manage to develop such handwriting?!"

He tilted his head back, tears streaming down his face, and roared with a flushed face.

"Do you take on apprentices? Please teach me, my name is Zhou Yang! I know the rules!"

"If you just nod your head, I'm willing to give up everything I own to serve you tea and water! I'll grind your ink! I'll lay out your paper!"

That shout was full of energy and had a strong penetrating power.

The shout completely stunned the diners in the courtyard who were engrossed in preparing braised pork and stir-fried vegetables.

The courtyard fell into a deathly silence.

Only the early autumn wind remained, swirling the fallen leaves from the alleyway in the air.

The clanging of pots and pans has completely disappeared.

A young man wearing glasses, sitting at table number three in the corner, dropped a piece of braised pork he was holding onto his chopsticks back into the broth with a "plop".

He is a graduate student at the Beijing Academy of Fine Arts, and he came here today specifically to check out this popular little restaurant.

He is very knowledgeable about the art and calligraphy circles.

The young man rubbed his eyes, staring in disbelief at the disheveled old man on the ground, and gasped.

"Holy crap... that person looks so much like Mr. Zhou Yang!"

The girl at the table paused for a moment, then lowered her voice and asked, "Which Zhou Yang?"

"Nonsense, who else could it be but Zhou Yang! The honorary president of the National Academy of Painting! Last year, his 'Spring Mountains' painting sold for forty-five million at Sotheby's!"

Although not many diners recognized Zhou Yang, there were one or two.

As the young people's exclamations spread, a series of gasps of surprise erupted from the crowd.

A big shot with 45 million?

A master of the art world?

He is now kneeling on the muddy ground of a small restaurant, hugging the leg of a young cook, crying and begging for ink and paper.

Has the world gone mad?

However, Lin Mo, who was at the center of this storm, showed no sign of being flattered on his handsome face.

He lowered his head slightly, looking at Zhou Yang who was clinging tightly to his arm, his brows furrowed into a deep frown.

Just now, the old man was using a magnifying glass to nitpick his menu, and he just assumed he was a difficult customer with a strange temper and poor eyesight.

Now, if someone suddenly pounces on you and clings to your leg, the nature of the situation completely changes.

This has seriously affected his plan to go back home at noon today, lie in a rocking chair, and sunbathe, just to laze around.

A hint of undisguised disdain flashed in Lin Mo's eyes.

With a flick of his wrist, he skillfully pulled his arm out of Zhou Yang's embrace without hesitation.

"Sir, don't try to scam me."

Lin Mo took half a step back, creating a safe distance.

He slowly used the rag in his hand to wipe the sleeves that the old man had just wrinkled.

His tone was as flat as a stagnant pool, without the slightest fluctuation, so steady it was unsettling.

"This is a run-down restaurant that sells food, not some elegant academy of calligraphy and painting."

"I don't take on apprentices, and the shop doesn't need any elderly customers for the time being."

Lin Mo casually draped the greasy rag over his shoulder and pointed to the open vermilion gate.

"If you're hungry and want to eat, go to the entrance and take a number to queue, but we're already full for today."

"If you're not eating, please move aside and don't block my way from clearing the plates and wiping the table."

These words were blunt and even ruthless.

The surrounding diners felt their scalps tingle and dared not even breathe.

That's a national treasure-level master!

With just a few casual words of advice, one can roam freely throughout the entire art world of Beijing!

This boss actually complained that someone was in the way and treated them as an obstacle in his way?

That takes a lot of confidence!

However, despite being so humiliated, Zhou Yang did not show even the slightest anger.

Having witnessed firsthand the creation of that masterpiece of the Slender Gold calligraphy style, his pride in his status as a master had long been utterly crushed into dust.

As Zhou Yang watched Lin Mo turn around to prepare to tidy up the table, the bloodshot veins in his eyes grew even more pronounced.

He gritted his teeth and suddenly made a move that made everyone's jaws drop again.

He did not get up and leave in shame or anger.

Instead, he simply sat down on the ground.

Zhou Yang used both hands and feet to quickly crawl two steps, then spread his arms out like an octopus and clung tightly to the thick solid wood support pillar next to him.

This pillar is the very one that Lin Mo personally repaired a few days ago using the lost "Hidden Cross" mortise and tenon structure.

Zhou Yang pressed his wrinkled face against the cold wooden pillar, completely unleashing his unreasonable and shameless mode.

"I'm not leaving!"

He stiffened his neck and started shouting loudly.

"If you don't take me in today, I'll sleep in this yard!"

"Even if I starve to death here, or die of thirst here, I'll still watch you write!"

Zhou Yang became more and more excited as he spoke, gripping the pillar even tighter with both hands, as if afraid someone would pull him away.

It's just like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum in front of a toy store, demanding to buy a Transformers toy.

"Anyone who dares to pull me away, I'll fight them!"

The entire venue fell silent once again.

The diners looked at each other, holding up their phones that they had just taken out, the screens still showing the recording screen. They didn't know whether to take a picture or not.

A master of traditional Chinese painting once clung to a pillar and acted like a rogue in a tiny, run-down restaurant in Nanluoguxiang.

If this were posted online, it wouldn't just trend on social media; the entire cultural industry's servers would crash on the spot.

Lin Mo stood still, quietly watching this scene.

He raised his hand and rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling a slight headache.

In his previous life, he traveled to famous mountains and rivers, learned crafts from different masters, and saw all sorts of strange and wonderful people.

But it's truly unprecedented to see an old man with a net worth of tens of millions who can throw a tantrum on the ground like this.

He just wanted to quietly cook some meals, fulfill his daily quota of twenty tables, and then relax and drink tea.

Is it really that hard to just let things fall apart?

Lin Mo sighed, reached into the pocket of his gray jacket, and touched the cold screen of his phone.

He was seriously considering whether the local police officers would believe the old man, given his current mental state, if he directly called the police to report someone causing trouble.

Just as Lin Mo was hesitating whether to press 110.

In the corner of the courtyard, from the small wooden door leading to the kitchen's dishwashing area, came a sudden, impatient noise.

The heavy windproof curtain was roughly ripped open.

Amidst a strong scent of dish soap and lemon, a figure peeked out, cursing and swearing.

"What's all the noise outside! What's all the noise!"

The newcomer had a very loud voice, with a lecturing tone typical of intellectuals, and shouted impatiently.

Everyone looked in the direction of the sound.

It was a middle-aged man wearing thick-rimmed reading glasses.

He was wearing a wrinkled old shirt, but out of place, he had a pink plastic waterproof apron tied around his neck.

His hands were covered in rich, fine white dish soap foam.

He was still clutching a dish sponge whose original color was indistinguishable in his hand.

This man was none other than Wang Cunzhuan, the head of the Department of Ancient Architecture at Tsinghua University, who had been completely recruited by Lin Mo with a bowl of cabbage and tofu soup—a form of free labor.

Wang Cuncun looked displeased, his brows furrowed tightly.

He was in the kitchen just now, and he optimized the dishwashing process into a labor-saving structure that conforms to modern building mechanics.

I was just about to make a final push and take down all the remaining dozens of greasy porcelain bowls.

The noise outside severely disrupted his perfect dishwashing rhythm.

"Can't you see I'm washing dishes to boost my sales performance!"

Wang Cunzhu angrily raised his foam-covered hands and waved them twice in the air, sending foam flying everywhere.

"If I don't wash all 100 dishes today, the boss won't save any for my staff meal tonight!"

"You've prevented me from enjoying that divine meal, who among you can take responsibility for that...?"

Before he could finish speaking, his voice abruptly stopped.

Wang Cunxin adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose, with the back of his hand, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard.

It landed precisely on the old man who was clinging tightly to the support pillar and sitting on the ground.

Although the old man's clothes were now covered in mud and his hair was disheveled, making him look like a down-on-his-luck vagrant.

But Wang Cunzhu was all too familiar with that face.

Both of them were involved in the top academic circles in Beijing.

We often meet at various high-level cultural salons, seminars, and state banquets, and we frequently argue and glare at each other over academic issues.

The anger on Wang Cun's face froze instantly.

He opened his mouth slightly, not even noticing that the water-soaked dish sponge in his hand had fallen onto the bluestone slab.

"Why?!"

Wang Cuncun rubbed his eyes in disbelief, his voice suddenly rising eight octaves.

It was a shocking experience, like seeing a ghost.

"Old Zhou?!"

Zhou Yang, whose name was called, was also startled.

He slowly turned his head and looked in the direction of the sound.

When Zhou Yang saw the middle-aged man wearing a pink plastic apron and whose hands were covered in white foam, he was completely dumbfounded.

A gust of autumn wind blew across the eaves of the courtyard house, swirling up a few withered yellow leaves.

Wang Cuncun, head of the Department of Ancient Architecture at Tsinghua University.

Zhou Yang, a leading figure in the world of traditional Chinese painting.

Two old acquaintances were staring at each other in this drafty, dilapidated courtyard.

The air seemed to freeze completely at that moment.

Two academic giants standing at the absolute pinnacle of their respective fields.

One was working as a laborer cleaning the kitchen, while the other was throwing a tantrum under a pillar in the yard.

This absurd and comical sense of dislocation, which reached its peak, caused the comedic effect of the entire scene to explode on the spot.

Zhou Yang stared blankly at Wang Cuncun.

His gaze followed Wang Cuncun's face, which was filled with shock, downwards.

It glided past that cheap pink plastic apron.

Finally, he stared intently at the dish sponge that was still bubbling at Wang Cuncun's feet.

Suddenly, Zhou Yang's body trembled violently.

He glanced at his old friend, then turned to look at Lin Mo, who looked helpless and was ready to call the police at any moment.

Zhou Yang glanced at the dishcloth in his old friend's hand, and a sudden inspiration struck him.

A flash of extremely fanatical light burst forth from his bloodshot eyes!