The simple, ancient wooden door opened with a soft creak, as if passing through time's dusty seal. Jiang Qiu stepped into this Cultivation Attic, hidden away from the rest of the world. Mottled light and shadow streamed through the lattice window, spilling onto mountain-like stacks of ancient texts whose yellowed pages testified to the passage of years. The air was filled with the scent of old wood and ink—the aroma of time and the fragrance of knowledge.
Towering bookshelves surrounded him like tall trees in a forest, and Jiang Qiu was a lost explorer, eager to find the true essence of his own path in this endless ocean of knowledge. All sorts of ancient texts were placed on every shelf, some neatly, others haphazardly. Some had damaged covers, others had faded script, but every single one exuded a sense of age and profundity. Jiang Qiu gently brushed his fingers over these crystallized fruits of wisdom, and the rough texture beneath his touch seemed to speak of their former glory.
