Inside the Shaolin Temple, as the setting sun turned to molten gold, the cries of the birds seemed stretched thin by the twilight, then shattered by the tolling of bells, scattering into the distant skies, becoming even more peaceful.
Atop the lone peak, Wang Anfeng rarely skipped his cultivation and instead sat cross-legged in front of a stone table. His black hair was not tied up but was merely secured with a grass rope, hanging over his left shoulder and gently swaying in the wind.
The youth had just turned fourteen, and his features were gradually maturing, his face full of youthful vigor. With a writing brush in one hand and his cheek resting on the other, he furrowed his brows in deep thought. Occasionally, something seemed to come to him, his eyes would brighten, and he would write rapidly as if to capture fleeting thoughts like shooting stars, the movement on the paper slightly urgent.