Inside Block Xin, the stale smell of moldy paper was scattered by a sudden Gang Wind.
This should have been the quietest place in the Heavenly Prison. Countless volumes were piled into tottering towers, completely obscuring the vaulted ceiling. Every book held more than ink: it also imprisoned a strand of its author's obsession. If an ordinary person wandered in, the clamor of those countless inner voices would likely overwhelm their Sea of Consciousness in an instant, turning them into a madman who could do nothing but recite the books of sages.
But now, these mountains of books that carried Great Qian's literary heritage were collapsing.
Pages shattered in midair, becoming pale dust that fluttered everywhere. The dust did not settle. Instead, some invisible field swept it up, sending it whirling madly around the figure in the black-and-red official robe, its whimpers resembling the wails of vengeful ghosts.
This was the sound of "conviction" collapsing.
The imprisoned great scholars, who ordinarily styled themselves men of integrity and filled their mouths with benevolence, righteousness, and morality, now watched in terror as the young man approached step by step. With each footfall, the Righteous Qi that had sustained Block Xin for centuries melted rapidly like lingering snow beneath a blazing sun, exposing the blackened, stinking foundations beneath.
Fang Mo stopped before the large huanghuali wood desk.
Slumped behind it was an elderly man whose hair and beard were entirely white, Great Qian's former Director of the Imperial Academy. How distinguished he had once been, with students and former subordinates throughout the court and beyond. Now, this venerable official's topknot was disheveled, and his prison clothes, washed pale, were covered in ink stains and bloodstreaks. Both hands clung desperately to the edge of the desk. His nails had already broken, gouging ghastly white