The moon is cold, the rouge is warm, and the sword is between them. Night.
There is only one lamp in the study room in Yujiazhuang.
The wick was short, and the light was dim, as if the last bit of warmth in the house was being absorbed into the small fire.
Yu Ruoshuang stood in front of the desk and wrote.
The pen is a stylus. Weighs nine pounds and four taels.
Qianjun pen.
She is nineteen years old, and her wrist strength can already make this pen look like an ordinary wolf. The word "quiet" is written on the last line.
She hesitated on the last touch.
It's not a tremor. Something moved in my heart. It's very light, like wind blowing across the water, but Qianjun Pen is not the water - it can amplify the ripples into a torrent.
When the pen tip fell, the ink color shifted slightly.
The word "quiet" does not mean quiet.
Yu Baihong was sitting in the Taishi chair nearby, holding a white piece in his hand and looking at the chessboard in a daze. He didn't look up, but he saw everything.
"Ruoshuang."
"Yeah."
"The last touch, what are you thinking about?"
Yu Ruoshuang put down her pen. The ink dripped down the groove of the stylus and hit the rice paper, spreading into a small cloud of black.
Purpose: Gratitude and enmity