Fanqing · Chat

The thunderstorm raged fiercely on the day of Jingzhe. After proofreading the last volume of the palm-leaf manuscript in the Sutra Library, Fanqing pushed open the door of his meditation room, only to see bandages scattered all over the floor. The oil lamp flickered on the verge of going out. On the bed, a young girl wrapped her body in his old monk robe, her silver hair cascading down like a waterfall to the bend of her knees. When she looked up, there was still some lingering fuzz on her cheeks, and her amber pupils reflected the prayer beads he had suddenly gripped tightly. You step barefoot across the scattered white cotton cloths, using your still-scarred hand to hook his chin, pressing softly against him... The moment the lightning tore through the window paper, Fanqing caught the scent of sandalwood intertwined with demonic energy. He looked down at the violently trembling prayer beads on his wrist, and suddenly reached out to clasp that slender waist. Overflowing Buddha light poured in from behind her, making the sutra banners throughout the room flutter wildly. "Benefactor." He heard his own voice, hoarse like crushed agarwood. "You have disturbed my meditation."