Aside from someone who leisurely waited after finishing their 'seven breaths for a doggerel poem'.
Including Gu Yiwu, the other students were systematically composing poetry or writing lyrics.
When the three sticks of incense had burned out and the music from the zither stopped, they put down their brushes one after another.
At this time, two mystical phenomena successively appeared in the lobby on the ground floor.
All of a sudden, next to Zhao Rong, Gu Yiwu halted his steps, strode to the desk, and with a swift flick of his brush, added the last line of the poem that came as naturally as divine inspiration.
In an instant, a silvery moonlight that resembled the gleam of swords burst forth from the ink of the still-wet page.
At that corner table where Zhao Rong and the others sat, it was as if a full moon peeked out from the paper, quickly catching the attention of many guests in the hall.
