Library

In the back mountain of Qingyun Sect, in front of the Sutra Pavilion. The late autumn wind swept up the sycamore leaves all over the ground, swirling and falling at the young man's feet. Luo Xuwu held the bamboo broom and swept it one by one. His movements were neither hasty nor slow, with a strange sense of rhythm. He wore a gray monk's robe that had been washed white, and the cuffs were frayed, but they were neatly tidied. The seventeen-year-old boy has a tall figure, a face like a crown jewel, and sharp eyebrows and starry eyes. Even if he is doing such a menial job as sweeping the floor, he has a somewhat romantic attitude in his hands.