Chapter 032: The Yang Style of Yan Calligraphy

“Yes, I miss my grandfather very much. He hasn’t come to visit in years, not even during New Year’s,” Yang Tian replied with a faint smile, though a hint of melancholy flickered in his eyes.

“Don’t be sad! I’m sure your grandfather will sense how much you care for him one day,” Huang Juan said, instinctively reaching for Yang Tian’s hand to comfort him softly.

In the blink of an eye, a month passed. Both Yang Tian and Huang Juan submitted a piece of work each. Huang Juan was thrilled; after a month of diligent practice, she finally managed to write a calligraphy piece that satisfied her. Though it was far from refined, the journey from someone who had never held a brush to someone who could produce elegant calligraphy brought her real joy.

What made her happiest was discovering the thoughts that weighed on Yang Tian’s mind. He had always seemed so strong, like a deep, still pool: calm and steady, yet impossible for her to see beneath the surface. She felt as if she could never truly reach his heart or share his burdens, never become a true confidant.

But witnessing the moment Yang Tian confessed to missing his grandfather, hope flared in her heart. He needed comfort too, and at last, she felt she had a place by his side.

Huang Juan was pleased with her work, but Yang Tian was not satisfied with his. After a month of recovery, his writing regained its former strength, but he still felt it fell far short of the standard his grandfather had taught him.

He was sure that if his grandfather saw this piece, he would still be disappointed. If that was the case, there was little chance his work would achieve anything notable in the competition.

A month was simply too short; there were many other things he needed to do. He could only restore his calligraphy to its pre-rebirth level, with no chance for a breakthrough.

After submitting his work, Yang Tian remained in low spirits. He could not be sure whether his efforts this time would be enough to bring a smile to his grandfather’s face. Perhaps this attempt to fulfill his dream was destined for failure.

In the office of the review committee for the City Middle School Calligraphy Competition at Shengli Middle School.

“Well, it seems Shengli Middle School really is hiding some talent! Old Liu, come and look at this piece!” Director of Academic Affairs Li Gang adjusted his reading glasses and called to Vice Principal Liu.

“‘A Fulfilled Dream’? Ah, Yan style! And I must say, it’s quite convincing!” Old Liu glanced at the piece and immediately perked up—after a morning of reviewing student submissions, he had finally found a noteworthy one.

“Yes, it’s Yan style, but with its own flavor. It breaks through the traditional firmness and roundness of Yan’s style—the strokes are sharper, though the hidden force isn’t quite there. Old Liu, you’ve studied Yan style; does this piece meet your standards?” Li Gang asked with a smile.

“It’s not bad. For a middle school student, this is impressive. Let’s see if this piece can win our school a good place!” Old Liu examined it for a moment, then chuckled.

“These two are decent as well. This one is a little soft, but you can see it’s trying to emulate Yan style. As for this one—no need to look, it’s definitely Sun Hui’s, old Sun’s grandson. One glance and you know he’s inherited the real technique!” Li Gang picked up two more works, one titled “Hometown,” the other “For the Common Good.” “Hometown” was by Huang Juan.

As for “A Fulfilled Dream,” it was, of course, Yang Tian’s. He had pushed the Yang family’s Yan style to its utmost, hoping for a chance to realize his dream.

The school’s review was quick; by the next day, more than twenty works from Shengli Middle School’s students were sent to the Eastern Division to compete in the city’s regional contest. Interest among the students surged once again.

Since Yang Yang took sixth place in the city back in 1993, Shengli Middle School had not placed in years. Now, with Sun Hui, the grandson of the town’s director of cultural affairs, participating—and his “For the Common Good” being quite well regarded—expectations throughout the school rested on his shoulders.

Rumors spread: in the past, only eighth and ninth graders placed, but this time it was a seventh grader. The younger generation was surpassing the old.

Hearing this, Sun Hui suddenly felt a surge of superiority and began to show off in class. He had once been top of the class, but ever since Yang Tian, Huang Juan, and Chen Ming outperformed him, he’d become sullen and resentful. Now, he finally found a chance to make a name for himself.

“Yang Tian, I heard you’re in the calligraphy competition too? Who’d have thought—you can write calligraphy?” During the break, Sun Hui sat in front of Yang Tian, looking down at him with a condescending gaze.

“His calligraphy is better than yours!” Huang Juan retorted before Yang Tian could reply, her tone sharp.

“That’s just love talking—let’s see the results. Whoever ranks higher in the competition has the better skill!” Sun Hui’s words made Huang Juan flush with anger.

“Fine, let’s see the results. Your lousy calligraphy? Yang Tian could write like that before he was even nine!” Huang Juan shot him a glare.

“Oh? Childhood sweethearts, huh? You know what he was doing before he was nine? Does that mean you’ve even seen him in split pants?” Sun Hui laughed crudely.

“Disgusting! Yes, I have. So what?” Huang Juan held her head high, undaunted, even as the whole class turned to look.

“I’ve never seen a girl as shameless as you!” Sun Hui said smugly.

“You…” Huang Juan was so angry that tears welled in her eyes.

“All right, that’s enough. We’re all classmates—what’s the point in arguing?” Seeing Huang Juan on the verge of tears, Yang Tian stood up and quietly handed Sun Hui a note before leaving the classroom.

Sun Hui looked at the note with disdain. It read: “Meet me at the playground.” He didn’t understand Yang Tian’s intention, but he gathered his friends and headed over.

When Sun Hui and his friends arrived at the playground, they found Yang Tian sitting by the basketball hoop, watching a group of ninth graders play.

The rural school’s court was rundown, little more than two battered hoops standing on concrete. The rims were warped; it was hard to sink a shot.

“Yang Tian, what’s this about—want a one-on-one?” Sun Hui demanded, standing before him.

“We’re in middle school now; fighting isn’t civilized. How about a basketball challenge? Three shots each. If I win, you’ll stop bullying Huang Juan,” Yang Tian rose and said solemnly.

“And if you lose?” Sun Hui grinned slyly. He’d grown up in town and played basketball since he was little. Even at his age, making shots was no challenge.

Yang Tian smiled modestly, anger burning inside. “Kid, you have no idea. Before my rebirth, I never lost at basketball in class. Watch and learn.”

“Fine. If you win, I’ll stop picking on you country kids!” Sun Hui didn’t think he’d lose. If he couldn’t beat Yang Tian in academics, he’d savor any victory elsewhere.

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