The snow on Cangwu Mountain has accumulated for three hundred years, and when it falls into Yan Ning's Suo Ling Inkstone, there are always layers of ice that cannot be melted.
Her spiritual power is as weak as a pen that has not been dipped in ink, unable to make even a single mark on the rice paper. Her classmates laughed at the inkstone as a piece of rubbish. She always looked at the inkstone in a daze, looking at her blurry shadow in the ice - like the sword she could not hold firmly, like the spiritual power she could not draw out, more like the piece of jade pendant that was close to her body, always getting hot on moonlit nights, and she could not tell whether it was warmth or burning pain.
When Xie Mozhou came to borrow some ink to study, his fingertips traced the ice on the edge of the inkstone, and he always said: "When the time comes, the snow and water will melt into ink."
She just thought it was a courtesy at that time - after all, who in this world would believe that an inkstone filled with ice can wait for the drop of ink that belongs to it?
Until the bone-eroding wind carried the demonic energy and smashed the window lattice, his sword was blocked in front of her, the moonlight flowed along the sword's spine into the inkstone, and the three-hundred-year-old ice cracked. Only then did she realize that some snow had fallen to wait for a boat carrying moonlight, so that three hundred years of ice could finally slowly melt into ink at the bottom of the inkstone.
Intention: work hard