"Qingfeng!" Mr. Turner smacked his lips, finding it catchy and easy to say. He glanced over at Mr. Brooks and his wife.

"Qingfeng is good, let's call it Qingfeng!" Mr. Brooks grinned from ear to ear.

Mr. Turner didn't stand on ceremony. He immediately picked up the brush and started writing with bold, flowing strokes. "Qingfeng Baozi Shop"—five characters were written in no time. Each character was worth two buns, and Mr. Turner felt he was getting the better end of the deal with the Zhu family. He then laid out more paper and wrote two banners: "Thin Skin, Juicy Filling" and "Genuine Goods at Fair Prices." Finally, he made a point of writing "One Wen Each" in bold.

"Uncle Brooks, there's no way to tamper with this 'one'—you can rest assured!" William Turner clapped and laughed from the side.

Chapter 4: The Cunning Monk

Mr. Turner had worked hard on his calligraphy since childhood. His elegant Slender Gold script, though not quite on par with the great masters of the age, was still better than most scholars.

"Excellent, truly excellent! Mr. Brooks, you've struck gold!" The people around kept praising.

Mr. Brooks beamed with joy and hurriedly thanked him: "Sir Turner, thank you so much. I'll have someone carve a sign and hang it up right away. With your calligraphy, business is sure to boom."

After a few polite exchanges, Mr. Turner was about to take his leave—after all, he still needed to find work and earn some silver to fill two hungry bellies!

"Marvelous! Light as drifting clouds, vigorous as a startled dragon, sparse and thin like a winter tree, restrained like a hungry servant in a strict household. Such skill can't be achieved without over a decade of hard work!"

Someone praised him so, and Mr. Turner was quite pleased. He looked in the direction of the voice and saw two monks approaching. The one in front was about fifty, wearing a robe patched all over. In Buddhist circles, this is called a "patched robe," which only those of certain status can wear. Ordinary monks, like the young novice behind him carrying a basket, could only wear plain gray robes.

Seeing they were monks, Mr. Turner quickly clasped his hands in respect and said humbly, "Master, your praise is too much. I don't deserve it."

"Amitabha. Benefactor, your calligraphy is ethereal and natural; your brushwork is both graceful and unrestrained, your technique both gentle and bold. Yet, this old monk senses a hint of unrest in your writing. Is there perhaps some frustration in your heart?"

Frustration? Of course there was!

He couldn't even afford a meal—how could he not be frustrated!

But how did the monk see that from his calligraphy? Was his insight really that sharp? Mr. Turner couldn't help but frown, unable to figure it out.

"Master, your Buddhist practice is profound, and even your calligraphy is so accomplished—truly admirable. May I ask where you are ordained?"

The monk raised his long eyebrows and chuckled, "This old monk is from Pujisi Temple. I just arrived at Tianfei Palace a month ago. My Dharma name is Edward Clark."

"So you are Master Edward Clark. I will be sure to visit when I have the chance."

"I shall await your visit, then."

With that, the monk strode away, the young novice following closely behind, and soon they disappeared from sight.

Mr. Turner watched their retreating figures and couldn't help but sigh, "To see into a person's heart from just a few characters—truly a great monk. William, we should ask for his guidance in the future."

"Guidance, my foot!"

William Turner pulled his father aside and pointed at their clothes. "That monk didn't see it from your calligraphy, but from our clothes!"

"Our clothes? What's wrong with them?" Mr. Turner still didn't get it. "They're clean enough."

"Clean, sure, but together, are they even worth a tael of silver?" William Turner sneered. "You write so well, but dress so poorly—what else could you be but a down-and-out scholar? Of course you're frustrated! Isn't that obvious?"

"Oh, that makes sense!" Mr. Turner frowned, then suddenly asked, "William, why do you think so little of the master?"

William Turner snorted and said nothing. In his previous life, to pay tuition, he'd shaved his head and worked as a fake monk at a tourist site for two months. Ever since then, he'd been a staunch atheist—better than any political textbook.

Mr. Turner furrowed his brow, then suddenly smiled. "That's right, William, I've thought of a job."

"What job?"

"Setting up a calligraphy stall! I remember there's a calligraphy stall in front of Tianfei Palace. With Master Edward Clark there, more and more pilgrims will come, and more people will want calligraphy. Yes, that's what I'll do. William, you go home first—I'll head to Tianfei Palace now."

Setting up a calligraphy stall was the easiest job for a down-and-out scholar. Judging by his father's situation, he couldn't do anything else anyway. As long as it kept the two of them fed for now, that was enough.

"Alright, but be careful!"

William Turner returned to the bamboo house. After reading for a while, he started to feel dizzy and weak, so he lay down on the small bed and drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up, it was already dark, and his father still hadn't returned. Worried that something might have happened, William Turner sat up in a panic, got dressed, and was about to go out to look. Before he could get up, the door swung open and Mr. Turner burst in, holding an oiled paper package, grinning from ear to ear.

"William, you must be hungry. Here are two steamed buns and four taels of pig's head meat—hurry and eat."

He unwrapped the package, and the aroma wafted straight into his nose, making William Turner's stomach growl.

"Dad, have you eaten?"

"Hehe, you go ahead. I had vegetarian food at Tianfei Palace—tasted pretty good. I'll take you to try it sometime."

William Turner took a bite of the bun and a few slices of pig's head meat, then suddenly frowned.