The late spring rain brings the unique warmth of the south of the Yangtze River, hitting the green tiles of Tiangongyuan diagonally, splashing fine water splashes, and winding along the eaves of the tiles in strings, just like the way snow water flowed down along the thatch in the ruined temple. Gu Yanchen stood in front of the railing of the observatory, twirling half of an improved rice leaf just picked from the experimental field with his fingertips. There was still fresh dew on the leaf veins. The wind carried the rain and hit the face, carrying the sweet smell of earth. The sound of students reciting the "Synthesis Sutra" could be heard in the distance, mixed with the clanking of forging iron in the workshop, weaving a lively net between the sky and the earth.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands. These hands had rubbed withered grass and burning ice in the ruined temple, sharpened ironwood arrows in the caravan, and held the blood-stained imperial edict in the court. Now, the palms of his hands were covered with thin calluses, the traces left by years of playing with equipment and adjusting formulas. The system panel was floating quietly in the depths of his consciousness. The [Ascension] button still shone like gold, but the countdown below had long since disappeared. From the day he refused to ascend, this panel seemed to have completed some kind of mission. Except for the basic synthesis and analysis function, it no longer meant any urging.
