Thirty miles outside the Capital, at Xiangshan, a figure in white sat under a bamboo grove painting. Even with the dim candlelight, it did not slow the speed of his brush. Smooth, elegant strokes outlined the contours of a pair of eyes, as though the motion had been repeated hundreds, thousands of times.
His brow, thick as a knife's edge, furrowed slightly, carrying a trace of melancholy that made one yearn to smooth it away.
His deep, crystalline eyes gazed at the eyes taking shape under his brush. They seemed filled with starlight, yet seemed to hold only a single person.
Chapter 338