"What are you drawing?"
Someone was as puzzled and curious as the Purple-clothed Sword Spirit.
The young Confucian Scholar sat upright on the Dragon Coffin, holding the sword scabbard in his one arm, resting it across his knee.
"Just a random sketch, don't mind it."
Zhao Rong said earnestly to the disfigured old Confucian Scholar stepping out of the dark tomb corridor.
His gaze equally earnest as he looked at the latter.
He did not avert his eyes.
"You... aren't fleeing?"
Zhao Rong remained silent.
It had been less than an hour since they parted at the Bamboo Forest Courtyard.
The one-armed young Confucian Scholar faced the disfigured old Confucian Scholar once again.
Only this time, it was in a place seemingly more fitting for death, with the former having lost an arm and a sword.
Yet the latter still held the tobacco pipe, strolling leisurely.
As if nothing had changed.
