When Lin Zezu began to paint, the bookstore fell into absolute silence. It would be more accurate to say that he was not so much painting as he was reproducing works from his past life.
In that former life, he had possessed some talent, but in an era of such intense competition, that talent had been good for nothing more than delivering takeout. Back then, it was called a "wild style"—or, to put it nicely, a hidden master among the masses; to put it bluntly, a back-alley amateur.
Yet, his strokes now were smoother than they had ever been in his past life, perhaps aided by the original owner’s muscle memory for the brush. Consequently, there was no hesitation in his technique, and the result appeared exceptionally polished. From the first stroke to the final inscription, less than a quarter of an hour had passed.
Chapter 117