Shen Le! What are you trying to do by ruining my makeup!

Shen Le rolled his eyes at Lan Zhuang and continued working hard.

What was wrong with making the jute stir itself?

I was the one providing the energy for it to grow!

I was the one controlling it, twisting left and right, curling, relaxing, coiling, and tumbling!

All I hadn't done was use my hands—who said mental power wasn't part of me? Who said using mental power to work didn't count as working?!

With great care, he mixed the jute evenly into the tung oil and lime until it had nearly solidified into one mass. Then he carried the bucket over and stuffed it into the gaps in the boat's hull, strand by strand.

He climbed up and down, swinging hammers and wedges, banging away as he worked with all his might. The little ones watched for a while, then Myriad Strands of Black Hair surged forth, wanting to help. Shen Le hurriedly stopped them.

"Stay back! Don't move—don't get your hair stuck in it!"

Good grief, soft, silky hair meeting tung oil—touch it, and it stuck; brush against it, and it got mixed right in.

And if Little Oil Lamp got excited nearby and sparked an electric arc, then with a crack, the fire could race along their hair and burn them all away!

Shen Le waved his hand forcefully, rolling up a gust of wind to push them back and forbidding them from helping. The skirts dodged left and right, bowing constantly to express their desire to help. Watching them, Shen Le's heart ached a little.

These little ones carried the pasts of those singing girls by the Qinhuai River, as well as their personalities.

Some were bold, some gentle, some cunning, but they all seemed like survivors of a great calamity.

They desperately wanted to prove that