Once upon a time, the grass grew and the orioles flew.
On a drowsy afternoon, Zhou Dao slouched and gazed out of the window, his ears filled with the sound of frantic writing and the endless teachings.
Countless pieces of knowledge seemed like heavenly books pouring into his mind, entering his right ear and then leaving through his left.
Such scenes seemed to have long become a light show, drifting farther and farther away, gradually blurring.
When Zhou Dao heard the familiar incantation-like words again, his memories came flooding back like a tide.
He stared blankly at the barefoot youth in a cloth gown before him, his eyes trembling.
The scene was just like when he had dozed off in class, only to hear giggles beside him, and upon raising his head, he saw that stern face in the sunlight, the balding forehead reflecting an unusual oily sheen, the gentle breeze blew a single strand of hair drifting in the wind.