After the little incident at West Peak Ridge, Chen Changan's journey went smoothly. He didn't encounter any problems.
More than a month later, the three of them finally arrived at the so-called Sacred Land of Literature.
The place where the Sacred Land of Literature stood was rather unusual. The city had been built right into the mountain.
The city itself was also unlike other places. Here, there were more taverns than anything else.
All along the streets, they could see plenty of scholars setting up stalls, either writing or painting.
Every so often, someone would throw back their head and laugh like a madman, then race down the street.
How was this the Sacred Land of Literature? Wasn't it just an asylum for lunatics?
"Had heaven not brought forth me, Chen Changan, the literary world would have known an endless night!"
"Excellent! Hahahaha, brilliant!"
Suddenly, Chen Changan heard those two lines of poetry coming from a tavern. They were the ones he had painfully forced out at Wind Moon Tower back then. He hadn't expected them to reach the Sacred Land of Literature so soon.
"Hahahaha!"
"I've painted it! I really painted it!"
"Take a look at my painting. Doesn't it have the same effect as the Son of the Sage of Literature's work?"
Not far away, another man was laughing wildly, holding up his painting and asking everyone he met.
"What a fine painting!"
"Brother, you've grasped the new style pioneered by the Son of the Sage of Literature so quickly? You truly are a genius."
"Though I haven't had the chance to see the Son of the Sage of Literature's masterpiece with my own eyes, your painting certainly has a wonderful sense of atmosphere."
"Hahahaha! If I ever get to meet the Son of the Sage of Literature,