Qin Xiangnuan once again opened her eyes, her long lashes slightly lowered. Her spirit also followed suit, collected itself, and she poised the pen right above the paper, starting with the first stroke.
The ancient ink gently ground out filled the room with fragrance. The ink-stone bathed anew shone brilliantly, now forceful and bold, now gentle and flowing, like a graceful and slender beauty, or like a robust and courageous warrior, or like a burst of spring blossoms brushed by the wind, or like the deep and stern cold of the north wind entering the pass.
A single point misplaced, and it's as if a beauty's gaze slightly skewed, the character's spiritual clarity greatly diminished, like a petal, its fragrance diffusing far, becoming even more pure and fresh.
