Frost flowers covered the window, and a solitary phoenix flew coldly past the eaves.
Baili An's gaze pierced through the carved window, looking at the distant snowy mountains, feeling an inexplicable gloom.
In the classroom, the incense had already been replaced three times, and half a day's time passed swiftly. Four more sticks and it would be dusk, marking the end of tonight's lessons.
Perhaps sensing the preciousness of time, the classroom was void of mockery and laughter, with everyone quietly pondering over the sundial plates in their hands, occasionally accompanied by Ji Yan's instructive interjections.
Baili An contemplated for a moment, then crushed the shattered sundial on his desk to dust, pouring it into the inkstone, grinding and mixing it.
He took out a piece of xuan paper, folded it into a thick stack, and began to write.
The strokes were firm and clear, yet what he wrote wasn't words, but the intricate Brahmic script of the Sword Language from the sundial plate.
