Time hurried on, the sun and moon flew like a shuttle, and two years slipped silently past, like a white horse flashing through a crack.
Ying Ming Hao was fifteen now, and his physique and features had fully matured.
His brows and eyes resembled a landscape painted in meticulous brushstrokes. The corners of his eyes tilted slightly upward, like distant mountains washed in ink, and when his gaze shifted, it was like moonlight reflected in a cold pool, its coolness touched by an almost imperceptible tenderness.
His eyelashes resembled two dense feather fans, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes when lowered. When he raised his gaze, however, it was as though stars had fallen into a deep pool, their brilliance making it impossible to look away.
His brow bones were sharp as though carved by a blade, yet those soulful eyes softened their contours, as if strength and tenderness had found perfect harmony in his face.
His high, straight nose looked as though it had been sculpted from white marble, its lines almost flawlessly smooth. In profile, it resembled a miniature mountain peak, radiating an unmistakable heroic air.
His lips were thin and well defined, their corners naturally tilted upward, giving him the suggestion of a smile even when he was not smiling. They resembled plum blossoms first unfurling in winter, threads of warmth woven through their coolness.
His lips were a pale cherry-blossom pink, trembling like petals when he spoke, inevitably bringing to mind the verse, "Before those vermilion lips part, laughter is already heard."
His jawline was sharp as a sword, but his rounded chin tempered its severity, like a piece of jade polished by running water, blending strength and softness.
His profile resembled an unfinished sketch, every stroke perfectly placed. Even his hairline seemed so flawless