The Literature Hall breathed.
That was the only way to describe it.
Light filtered through high arched windows, soft and golden, illuminating rows of shelves that stretched farther than the eye could comfortably follow. Scrolls rested beside tablets. Books bound in leather, silk, jade-thread, and unknown materials lined the walls—some old enough that the air around them felt heavier, wiser.
Disciples entered quietly.
Not because they were told to.
Because the space demanded it.
At the center of the hall, Elder Yaochen sat behind a low desk—not elevated, not distant. His posture was straight, hands resting calmly on the wood, eyes half-lidded as if listening to the hall itself.
Before him sat dozens of disciples.
Young. Old. New. Experienced.
All listening.
"Literacy," Yaochen said softly, his voice carrying without effort, "is not the act of reading."
He lifted one book.
Old. Unassuming.
"It is the act of understanding what survives time."
