In Earth Room B of the Lufeng Inn, Stoneborn sat at the table diligently practicing his calligraphy. The brush shaft was steady in his hand, tracing the paths in his mind.
Seeing that Mr. Yi was absent, Chi Qinghu had not intended to linger in the room. Yet after watching Stoneborn write for a while, he became absorbed, and before he knew it, he had stayed quite some time.
The strokes of this little boy's writing were distinctly unusual. They seemed to be more than ink forming characters, resembling instead the paths of water flowing along riverbeds.
At times, Chi Qinghu felt that the characters beneath Stoneborn's brush were not merely characters. His writing was sometimes swift, sometimes slow, sometimes lively, sometimes heavy.
It was simply-simply like a martial artist practicing his skills. No, it was something more extraordinary, something far beyond that!
"Oh no, I messed it up again!"
Stoneborn cried out in frustration, set his brush on the brush rest beside him, and puffed out his cheeks in a sulky pout. Beneath his brush was a half-written character. Judging by the radical above and the box below, it might have been "thunder."
Chi Qinghu looked at the writing on the paper, then at Stoneborn's frustrated expression. Truthfully, he felt rather ashamed; he thought his own handwriting was not even as good as Stoneborn's.
"Stoneborn, you've already written very well. With writing like this, Mr. Yi won't be harsh with you!"
Stoneborn looked up at Chi Qinghu beside him, a smile appearing on his puffed-up face.
"I think it's pretty good too. At least a few of the characters are all right."
Still, Stoneborn felt a little guilty saying this, because his assignment was hardly just calligraphy practice.
"If only I could go out and play..."
As Stoneborn said