The moonlight in the desert is bright, casting the inn room in a gentle glow.
Fang Hong absentmindedly put down the quill, inserting it into the ink bottle.
He raised his head, then lowered it again, sighing—a sigh as he closed the diary and stood it upright, inserting it among a pile of books. Some of those big, thick books had titles edged in gold thread that read "Theory of Ether," "Geography of Istania," and "Numelin Alchemy Studies."
Fang Hong looked at the moonlight outside the window, his mind filled with tangled thoughts, unable to stop the ideas from the day rising in his heart.
He leaned back, sliding his chair, reaching to open a drawer—the drawer contained a stack of parchment as dry as dead leaves, covered with winding symbols that reflected a faint glow in the moonlight.
