6:30 in the evening.
Less than half an hour until the class meeting starts, Zheng Qing quietly slipped out of the labyrinth of bookshelves.
He originally thought that outside the library there would be a large crowd of wizards holding torches and straw men, parading, shouting, protesting, wanting to capture him and burn him alive.
But in fact, apart from the wizard at the front desk dealing with loan registration glancing at him twice, the whole library atmosphere was no different from his memory—students coming and going looked exhausted, stepping hurriedly, as if the crowd watching him that morning was just a dream and delusion.
This made all the psychological construction he had been doing feel like a punch to cotton, bringing a sense of inexplicable emptiness.
"Are you sure you want to borrow this book?"
