Millet and other grains had been laid out on the altar.
Shen Tang lit the incense and candles.
This time, she'd learned her lesson.
She'd prepared a little note that steered clear of Word Spirits as much as possible. She also kept repeating to herself, This is a prayer, not a Word Spirit. I absolutely mustn't let anything go wrong again, while keeping a close eye on her Dantian.
She wasn't the only one on edge. Chu Yao, Qi Shan, and the others were taut with nerves, their eyes fixed on Shen Tang's every reaction.
They were afraid that if they looked away for even a moment, someone's literary energy would be drained.
Thankfully, it didn't happen.
[Thank heavens!]
That was exactly how the Literary Scholars felt at that moment. Shen Tang, too, felt as though she'd just fought a battle, cold sweat running down her back.
The commoners around them also prayed with sincere reverence.
Even white-haired old men, their backs bent with age, secretly turned away to wipe their tears. Back when times were hard, they couldn't even dream of eating their fill or finding work. They didn't even have land to farm. Families dug up wild vegetables, drank water, and chewed tree bark. At one point, they'd dug several mountains bald.
They'd struggled through one year after another.
They'd never imagined that Heaven would finally take pity on them and send them a prefect who truly cared about their welfare. Just as Shen Tang finished, sobs rose from the crowd.
Even the youngest children had stopped misbehaving.
They obediently stayed by their Patriarchs' sides, copying them as they prayed.
They were old enough to remember what it was like to go hungry.
Once the ceremony was over, they came to the most crucial part.
Shen Tang hitched