After a while.
"Young master, the ink has been ground." Xiong Wang said respectfully.
"Hmm." Zhang Xiaohao nodded calmly.
He walked over, picked up the brush, dipped it in a bit of ink, and painted a stroke on the white paper, frowning, seemingly dissatisfied with the stroke.
"What's wrong, young master?" Seeing Zhang Xiaohao's expression, Xiong Wang asked.
"It's nothing to do with you." Zhang Xiaohao said, still frowning.
With a wave of his left hand, he threw the piece of scrapped paper into the trash can.
Raising the brush, he focused, but this time Zhang Xiaohao did not hurry to start, instead, he was contemplating, feeling the accumulation of his mundane experiences over the past half year, like a movie playing in his mind, all the scenes flashed by one by one.
After quite a while.
Zhang Xiaohao collected his thoughts, his eyes filled with the flavor of life, as if at this moment he was not a cultivator but just an ordinary person.
