Third skill.

The scholar looked up, sizing Zhong Lin up for a moment before chuckling. "What, you want to sell paintings too?"

Zhong Lin froze. Was his intent that obvious?

As if reading his confusion, the scholar straightened up and smiled faintly. "You've been lingering here for two days. Still haven't made up your mind?"

Zhong Lin tensed. He'd thought he'd hidden it well, but apparently not.

"Compared to ghostwriting letters, selling paintings is indeed a better path. But if you sell here, you'll only scrape by. To earn real silver, you'll need to find another way," the scholar said leisurely.

Though unsure why this stranger was sharing advice, Zhong Lin quickly bowed. "Please, sir, enlighten me."

"Nuǎnxiāng House."

The scholar uttered three words.

Zhong Lin pondered briefly before recognizing the name. It was hard not to—it came up constantly, openly or discreetly, since arriving in Heishan County.

Nuǎnxiāng House was a brothel, and a high-end one at that—not some quick-transaction dive. It was renowned for its warm ambiance, top-tier performances, and meticulous service, making it a favorite haunt for Heishan County's literati, gentry, and wealthy merchants.

Rumor had it a single dance by one of its courtesans could rake in over a hundred taels in tips.

Zhong Lin's eyes lit up. The scholar was right—painting for common folk might earn a few qian of silver, but the courtesans at Nuǎnxiāng House? Their casual tips could be several taels!

"Why don't you go, sir?" Zhong Lin asked, curious.

The scholar glanced at his right hand and sighed. "I curse the heavens for not granting me a pair of skilled hands."

With that, he ignored Zhong Lin, lowering his head to resume painting.

Zhong Lin didn't linger, turning to leave.

As Zhong Lin vanished around the corner, another scholar at a nearby stall—busy copying books—teased, "Xu Heng, since when did you become so generous? Pointing the way for someone—aren't you afraid he'll steal your business?"

Xu Heng glanced at Zhong Lin's retreating figure, sneering. "I'm not worried about him taking my business. He's just an eyesore standing there. Dark skin, knobby knuckles, calluses on his thumb and forefinger—he's obviously some hunter from a backwater hollow. Probably doesn't even know what a sage's book looks like, yet he wants to paint? It's an insult to refinement."

"Not necessarily," the other scholar countered. "What if he's got family skills? Take Wang Zhi, the framer in the west district—blind and lame, illiterate, yet his copying skills leave us in awe."

Xu Heng smirked. "Even if he's got some inherited painting knack, so what? That's Nuǎnxiāng House."

The other scholar's face shifted, as if recalling something. He shook his head and fell silent.

…

Sweet Water Lane.

Zhong Lin returned with an armful of brushes, pigments, and painting paper. Skipping dinner, he dove into the western side room—now a makeshift study—dragged over a stool, and sat Little Shi upright as his model.

These past few days weren't aimless wandering—he'd been scouting money-making opportunities.

No capital, no strength, no skills—painting became his target.

This era's art resembled ancient Chinese ink-wash painting, prioritizing intent over form. Xu Heng's works were strikingly lifelike, earning gasps of admiration.

Zhong Lin couldn't compete in traditional painting, but he could carve a new path.

In his past life, amid an information explosion, he'd seen countless styles. Instead of ink-wash, he'd go for detailed, realistic painting—emphasizing one word: likeness.

A likeness rivaling a camera.

By chance, he'd once stumbled across realistic painting on Douyin, marveling at its detail. He'd even studied it briefly, though his enthusiasm fizzled after three minutes.

Picking it up again would've been tough—but who needs effort with a cheat?

Unwilling to waste his new paper and pigments, Zhong Lin sharpened a twig and crouched in the courtyard. He spread a layer of fine sand on the ground for practice—reusable and cost-free.

Facing Little Shi as his model, he sketched with the twig, stroke by stroke.

"Second Brother, done yet? My butt's itchy."

"Hold it."

"I need to poop."

"Hold that too."

"I need to pee."

"Why so much trouble? Just a little longer."

After half an hour, Zhong Lin set the twig down. A rough outline of Little Shi marked the sand—not the main point.

Eagerly, he summoned the system panel.

Host: Zhong Lin

Skills: Archery (Max Level), Flying Locust Stone (Max Level), Realistic Painting (Beginner)

Skill Points: ∞

"Yes! Finally a skill! Add points!"

Zhong Lin's heart leapt. At his command, the ∞ symbol flickered, and "Beginner" behind Realistic Painting morphed into "Max Level."

A flood of memories surged into his mind. In them, he painted tirelessly—twenty-four hours a day, pausing only to eat and sleep.

Leaves, flowers, rocks, cats, dogs, people…

Each object, each figure sprang to life under his brush.

Over time, his art became so vivid it deceived the eye—cats he painted scared off household mice, flowers he drew lured butterflies and bees.

"System."

Host: Zhong Lin

Skills: Archery (Max Level), Flying Locust Stone (Max Level), Realistic Painting (Max Level)

Skill Points: ∞

Zhong Lin's closed eyes slowly opened, his mind now brimming with realistic painting expertise. When painting a face, its basic shape materialized in his head.

For eyes—phoenix eyes, peach-blossom eyes, triangular eyes, watery eyes—every type flashed through his mind.

Drawing a nose brought forth proportions, facial ratios, and feature layouts in a rush.

With a clear description, he could paint someone seven or eight parts true without ever seeing them.

Beyond that, he mastered pigment blending effortlessly.

Standing, he returned to the study, spread rice paper on the desk, dipped a brush in ink, and began. Moments later, Little Shi's portrait emerged—not seated on the stool, but gnawing a chicken leg from yesterday, grease smearing his mouth, eyes alive with a spark that seemed to breathe.

"S-Second Brother…"

Little Shi pointed at the desk, wide-eyed and spooked, as if he'd seen a ghost. His expression sent Zhong Lin into peals of laughter.

"It's done."