"Little Clark, there's no need for such formality. I am now just an ordinary guest, not some scholar." Samuel Adams, after all, was a man of great experience. While supporting Edward Clark with one hand, he stopped the stall owner's impulsiveness with the other. "Old man, you need not envy others. Today, in honor of your comment, I shall grant your wish and take one of your paintings or calligraphy pieces, exchanging it for a piece of my own handwriting. How about that?" He signaled his attendant to bring over brush and ink, and with a flourish, wrote a poem on a four-foot-long blank vertical scroll, then smiled and stamped it with his personal seal.

Edward Clark had no time to pay attention to the excited stall owner. To run into the great literary master Samuel Adams right after stepping out the door—such odds were about the same as a pie falling from the sky. If he didn't seize this opportunity, he'd be the biggest fool under heaven. Since childhood, he hadn't learned much else, but when it came to calligraphy, he did have some skill; at the very least, he had memorized quite a few of those comments. Now, he took the chance to praise, "No wonder people say the scholar's calligraphy perfectly embodies the essence of 'naturalness'—it truly is effortless and innate!"

To be honest, Samuel Adams took even more pride in his calligraphy than in his poetry. Hearing this, his initial three points of goodwill toward Edward Clark instantly rose to seven. He didn't care that this was their first meeting; pointing to a nearby restaurant, he warmly invited, "Meeting Little Clark today is fate indeed. Why not let me be the host and have a hearty drink at that Yuxian Restaurant together?"

Edward Clark was overjoyed. Unlike others who would feign reluctance, he agreed at once, not realizing that in others' eyes, this made him seem genuine and unpretentious, further improving their impression of him.

He had long assessed his own situation as a newcomer to this world, and the results were undoubtedly discouraging. He couldn't make paper, knew nothing of printing, glassmaking, or cement and concrete, nor gunpowder or cannons, and he hadn't memorized many famous poems... In short, he lacked almost all the essential skills for a time traveler. Aside from a bit of historical knowledge, his only real talent was calligraphy. Everything depended on whether he could pass muster with Samuel Adams; otherwise, all talk was empty.

Chapter Four: Discussing Calligraphy at the Tavern

The Yuxian Restaurant was located on the south side of Quyuan Street, with a pavilion in front and a terrace in back. In modern terms, it was a classic garden hotel, a gathering place for high officials and nobles, and naturally, everything inside was astonishingly expensive. Edward Clark knew that if he weren't following the famous Mr. Adams, he probably wouldn't even be able to step through the door. Even so, when he caught sight of the row of wooden price tags on the wall, he couldn't help but secretly click his tongue: a small bottle of silver wine cost seventy-two wen, a small bottle of lamb wine eighty-one wen—just one meal here would cost several strings of cash.

On the way, he was already planning what to say later. When meeting someone important, you had to show some real ability, or how could you make the most of the opportunity? He couldn't stand living in poverty and was determined to improve his living conditions as soon as possible, which meant he had to work on Samuel Adams. After all, that legendary young prince-in-law was said to be an old friend of Samuel Adams, and the whereabouts of Zhao Ji would have to be found through that connection.

Just as he remembered, the over-fifty-year-old Samuel Adams was at the height of his powers, still holding the honorary title of Minister of Rites. Everyone knew of his literary fame, so the restaurant owner naturally went out of his way to flatter him, arranging an elegant window seat upstairs and using a screen to separate them from other guests. In the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the waiters had already filled the table with dishes, and Samuel Adams ordered his attendant to warm several bottles of wine on the side before starting to chat with Edward Clark.

When it came to poetry and prose, Edward Clark and this literary giant had little in common, so there was no way to pretend to be cultured. However, once the topic turned to calligraphy, he became eloquent. The two of them discussed calligraphers from the Jin and Tang dynasties all the way to the present. With such an expert beside him, Edward Clark dared not flatter too much, only occasionally offering a well-placed compliment, which greatly pleased his companion. As the wine flowed, he took advantage of the mood to urge Samuel Adams to write a piece, and as it happened, Professor Adams was also in high spirits and readily agreed.

Edward Clark hurriedly called for the waiter to clear the dishes, spread out the xuan paper, rolled up his sleeves to grind the ink, and kept glancing at the master calligrapher so highly praised by his own teacher—after all, he'd never seen the famous Mr. Adams in such a tipsy state. Once the ink was ready, he weighed down three corners of the paper with paperweights and personally stood at the left to hold down the last corner. At this moment, Samuel Adams, holding a cup in his left hand and swaying slightly, walked over, paused briefly in front of the paper, then suddenly dipped his brush in thick ink and began to write with bold, swift strokes.

Seeing Samuel Adams muttering to himself in high spirits, Edward Clark finally relaxed. He knew he had been a bit presumptuous to urge someone to write at their first meeting, but opportunities like this were rare—if Samuel Adams didn't write, how could he show off his own skills? Yet when the writing was finished, he truly understood what it meant to be bold and unrestrained, the wine's spirit flowing through the brush. A full rendition of "Nian Nu Jiao: Reminiscing on the Red Cliffs" displayed heroic flair; even the stone inscriptions of later generations could not compare to this masterpiece.

"Little Clark, what do you think?" The drunken Samuel Adams looked at his new work, extremely satisfied, but still did not forget to ask for an opinion.