in a small study room in the capital of yunjin.
song fengwan was sitting in front of the mahogany desk, talking to someone with her headphones on. she poured some water into an inkstone and ground the ink carefully. fu chen was sitting in front of the desk in an indigo long-sleeved shirt. his hair was wrapped in cinnabar, and he was copying buddhist scriptures on gold-stamped paper.
he had indeed been too impetuous recently.
fu chen had always liked to control everything in his own hands. everything that had happened over the years was within his expectations. if a destined person suddenly popped up, it would really be ...
only then did he put down the matters at hand and prepare to copy the scriptures to allow himself to settle down completely.
however, as he wrote, the four lines from before appeared on the paper. these few sentences kept repeating in his mind, unable to be removed.
