The Birth of the Tabloid (2)

"Exactly to my liking, oh, so perfectly to my liking!" Lin Wanrong could barely resist the urge to grab Dong Qiaoziao and plant a kiss on her. This girl was a treasure, plain and simple. Choosing this father-daughter duo? Damn, his eye for talent was top-notch.

Though they couldn't quite grasp what Lin Wanrong was thinking, the excitement in his eyes told the Dong family pair all they needed—he was beyond satisfied.

Noticing the joy on Dong Qiaoziao's face, Lin Wanrong suddenly grinned. "Miss Qiaoziao, aren't you chummy with the Eldest Miss Xiao? Seeing us skewer her like this, how come you're still helping the tyrant?"

Dong Qiaoziao knew full well the content in these sections was mostly her father's hearsay, spiced up with a dash of wild fabrication—truth was hardly the point.

She smiled gently. "Young Master, you've said it yourself—we're in business for profit. This booklet's tales are just bits and pieces floating around the streets. We've tidied them up, slapped on a slightly flashy title—that's all. It doesn't hurt anyone, and it benefits us. Besides, I wouldn't say I'm close to the Eldest Miss Xiao. I've never even met her."

Brilliant, Lin Wanrong thought with a sigh. He was running a tabloid here—truth was beside the point. But her words piqued his curiosity. "This Eldest Miss Xiao doesn't even let a tailor measure her for clothes?"

Dong Qiaoziao saw through his confusion and smiled. "The Eldest Miss Xiao is terribly busy. I always just take one of her old dresses and use it as a template."

Making clothes that satisfied the Eldest Miss Xiao with just an old garment as reference? This Dong Qiaoziao was one clever-handed girl.

After all this talk, the tabloid's debut was still missing one crucial piece.

Dong Qiaoziao eyed the blank space Lin Wanrong had insisted on leaving empty, puzzled. "Young Master, what's this spot for?"

Lin Wanrong flashed a mysterious grin but didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Qiaoziao, got any charcoal?"

She nodded obediently and fetched a burnt stick from the kitchen. In this era, pencils were unheard of—graphite, too—and Lin Wanrong couldn't wield a brush. Charcoal would have to do.

It'd been four or five years since he last drew anything; his skills were rusty. He started scribbling on the ground, rough and messy.

Dong Qiaoziao watched as, in a few strokes, a lovely woman's face emerged on the dirt. She looked alive—elegant, beautiful, her expression and poise startlingly lifelike.

The father and daughter had seen splashy ink paintings before, but this lightning-fast sketching was a first.

Lin Wanrong studied his work, sighing inwardly. Years without practice, and he'd gotten sloppy—his old self was leagues better.

Sketching was something he'd picked up in middle school. Later, in college, chasing his first girlfriend, he'd honed it over four years, filling two cardboard boxes with portraits of her. But after graduation, she'd jetted off to the United States of America, and he'd moved on to other pursuits—girls included.

Lost in memories, he snapped back when Dong Qiaoziao called his name a few times. He grinned. "Miss Qiaoziao, what's up?"

She asked softly, "Young Master, what's this drawing? It's so simple—and so pretty."

He had a soft spot for the gentle, lovely Dong Qiaoziao and answered patiently, "It's called a sketch—a quick drawing style from my hometown. I haven't done it in years, so I'm rusty."

Dong Qiaoziao shook her head. "No, I think it's amazing. Simple strokes, yet so vivid and deep. To make such a piece with just a scrap of burnt wood—someday, Young Master, you'll be a grandmaster."

Lin Wanrong's thick skin couldn't quite handle that. Blushing, he waved it off with a laugh. "Miss Qiaoziao, keep talking like that, and I'll get full of myself."

She covered her mouth, giggling, her beautiful eyes curving into enticing crescents. "But where's your hometown, Young Master?"

He froze, his expression dimming. "My hometown? Far, far away."

Thinking he didn't want to say, a flicker of disappointment crossed her face. She bit her lip, turned to watch him draw, and fell silent.

Dong Rende, who'd been staring at the portrait, suddenly piped up. "This woman looks like Madam Xiao, but—"

Lin Wanrong chuckled. "Take another look. Is it really Madam Xiao?"

Dong Rende squinted, then said, "She's younger than Madam Xiao, prettier too. Could it be—could it be—" The pair exchanged a glance, shock dawning, and turned to Lin Wanrong. "The Eldest Miss Xiao—"

Lin Wanrong smiled without a word. Dong Rende pressed, "Young Master Lin, you've seen her?"

He shook his head, laughing. "You haven't, so how could I? I just happened to catch a glimpse of Madam Xiao earlier. This is based on her, plus a bit of imagination—sketched on the fly. Should be about thirty percent alike, right?"

By now, the Dong duo's faces held nothing but awe and admiration. Imagining a twenty-something daughter from a thirty-something mother's likeness? Most artists couldn't pull that off. To them, Lin Wanrong seemed downright omnipotent.

Seeing their looks, Lin Wanrong smirked inwardly. He'd deliberately made this "Eldest Miss Xiao" resemble Madam Xiao—younger, lovelier—to trick those smitten scholars into believing this was their dream girl.

After practicing with the stick a bit more, feeling decently warmed up, he asked Dong Qiaoziao for a knife. He whittled the charcoal into a pencil shape—hands dusted gray, but far easier to use.

Her curiosity flared again. "Young Master, is this a brush? It's so odd. What's it called?"

He grinned. "I need something called a pencil to draw, but they don't exist here, so I'm making do with charcoal. Once I'm done, you've got to stash it for me—might need it again someday." She nodded sweetly.

With this "pencil" in hand, Lin Wanrong felt like he was back by Weiming Lake, sketching for his girlfriend. His strokes flowed divinely. In no time, a refined, natural beauty graced the page. With a sharper tool and his groove back, this piece outshone the last by miles.

The woman's skirt fluttered like she was stepping over waves—an ethereal fairy. Her face glowed with a faint smile, exuding grace, as if she stood right there. A slight furrow in her brow hinted at hidden worries—Lin Wanrong's nod to the Xiao family's recent troubles, per Dong Rende, for extra realism.

"Is this really the Eldest Miss Xiao? She's gorgeous," Dong Qiaoziao murmured beside him, lost in awe. "If only I had a portrait like this."

Lin Wanrong laughed. "Sure thing. I'll sketch one for you someday."