Dust World Pavilion, rear courtyard.
Inside a wooden hut.
Cheng Liu sat cross-legged on a cushion, his eyes closed as though he were meditating in cultivation.
Not far from him, Cheng Wenxin had his head buried over a desk, writing on rough paper.
There was no thought, only the brush racing across the page without the slightest pause. Yet the fine sweat beading at his temples clearly showed that it was not so simple.
Move closer!
And one could see that the writing upon the rough paper was clear and fluid, the brush moving as if guided by a god. It was as though he had long committed everything he was writing to heart. It was obvious at a glance that this was far from his first or second time doing it.
After a long while!
Cheng Wenxin cautiously glanced at Ancestor Liu on the cushion not far away!
Yet the flowing handwriting on the rough paper continued to pour from the brush tip with the same swishing rhythm as before!
At that moment.
A faint voice drifted over.
"If your strokes are crooked in heart, what use is there in writing more?"
"Add another ten thousand times!"
The voice came from Cheng Liu, who sat cross-legged on the cushion.
Though he had not opened his eyes or deliberately watched Cheng Wenxin, the entire wooden hut lay within the alert range of his Divine Sense.
Even when he was wholly absorbed in cultivation, anything within that warning range would instinctively appear in his mind.
Cheng Liu had long trained Divine Sense warning to the level of instinct.
Thus, every table and chair in the wooden hut—even a single speck of dust—would appear within his mind, let alone Cheng Wenxin's little movements.
This was the terrifying part of Mortal Cultivators!
Upon