In the quiet room, atop the green sandalwood tea table, the tea cups are as white as snow, with a gentle fragrance wafting between the two people.
Li Qingyue looked at him, her bright eyes clear, a smile spreading across her face, and asked, "You haven't brought me a jar of fine wine, have you?"
Qin Ming's hair was pitch black, his eyes spirited. Thinking back to old times, he couldn't help but laugh, shook his head and said, "The gift this time isn't wine, but it might truly intoxicate you."
"Oh, what is it then?" Li Qingyue was surprised and quite curious.
In this quiet and elegant room, filled with exquisite tea sets and a writing desk equipped with brush and ink, he picked up a piece of paper, ready to write down those two immensely mysterious scriptures.
Li Qingyue also stood up, graceful as jade, and came closer to the desk to personally grind the ink for him.
