Time turned back several days.
Li Ping'an sat in a secluded, deserted spot on a mountaintop, his back against a poplar.
Half reclining, he looked at the surrounding scenery, a sword resting beside him.
Sheets of yellow talisman paper lay before him. Though there was wind, they did not stir.
Li Ping'an bit his finger and forced out his essence blood.
Using blood as ink, he held the Knight-Errant Brush in his right hand.
And so he began to write.
His handwriting was dignified and solemn, carrying a profound resonance. His brushwork was steady and expansive, his right shoulder moving slightly.
The strokes were powerful, light and darkness interweaving.
Old Ox reached out and plucked hairs from Li Ping'an's head one by one, then wound them around the yellow paper talismans.
Whenever he finished one, the yellow paper talisman rose on the wind, drifting up and down through the air.
At the same time, it folded itself, transforming into a paper crane in mere moments.
The paper cranes flapped their wings and rode the wind.
Once all the paper cranes had flown away, Li Ping'an gently breathed out.
With the journey there and back, I don't know whether there'll be enough time.
At that moment, a hint of fish-belly white had appeared in the sky, faintly stirring with life, as though dawn were about to arrive.
And when a ray of morning light spilled down.
Li Ping'an slowly opened his eyes, a trace of weariness in them.
The night's expenditure had truly been enormous.
He had sent messages across provinces, and had to ensure they traveled fast enough, too.
Li Ping'an rubbed his brow and softly exhaled.
He had a vague sense of foreboding and did not rest any longer.
Stepping onto the Fine Rain Flying Sword, he streaked off