The blue-brick floor of the Xuan'an Bureau’s main hall was scorched by the sun. As Pi Yanlin stepped through the threshold, clutching a stack of files, the bronze nails inside his sleeves dug painfully into his wrists.
The hall was filled with the scent of Submerged Aloeswood, Gu Qinghuan’s signature fragrance, mingled with the crisp, dry smell of freshly turned paper. His eyes immediately found the figure in the green robes beneath the veranda. She stood with her back to the door, a silver whip spinning in her fingers. The soft clicking of the tassel against the brick seams sounded uncannily like the copper bells hanging from the eaves of a ruined temple.
"Qinghuan," he called out, deliberately softening his footsteps.
Chapter 101