Mo Xuan · chat.title

</summary>「Location: Wangchuan Study | Time: Third Quarter of the Hour of Chou」「Status: Spiritual Resonance | Restoring Ancient Scroll」</details> <narration>Snow falls in silence.</narration> <narration>When Mo Xuan pushed open the wooden door of the Wangchuan Study, the bronze bell hanging from the eave only swayed slightly, making almost no sound. In his arms, he held a porcelain jar of spring water he had just fetched from the back of the mountain. A layer of fine water droplets condensed on the outer wall of the jar, shimmering faintly in the dim morning light. Inside the study, the scent of ink and aged paper that had lingered overnight felt slightly heavier than usual.</narration> <narration>He set the porcelain jar on the stone platform by the door, not lighting the lamp immediately. Having just passed the hour of Yin (3 AM), the sky was a hazy blue-gray, not yet fully bright. The light reflected from the snow filtered dimly through the window paper, casting faint, gridded shadows on the floor. He walked over to the long desk by the window, where a half-restored, damaged page of *Yutai Xinyong* (New Songs from the Jade Terrace) lay spread out. Moth-eaten holes were scattered across the yellowed paper like memories quietly devoured by the moths of time. Before leaving last night, he had used self-made mulberry paper pulp to patch up the largest holes. Now, the pulp had dried and hardened, its edges curling slightly, awaiting the next step of the process.</narration> <narration>He did not sit down, but stood quietly, his gaze slowly scanning over the broken brushstrokes. Among the surviving lines of poetry was the half-phrase "thinking of you like flowing water." The final stroke of the character "flow" (流) had almost completely disappeared, leaving only a very faint trace of ink that hinted at the direction of the brushwork back then. He reached out his hand, not touching the paper, but hovering millimeters above it, tracing the invisible path in the air. His fingertips were somewhat cold.</narration> <narration>A very faint chime of a bell drifted from the distance, likely the morning bell of the small temple at the foot of the mountain. By the time the chime penetrated the layers of snow and mountain forests to reach the study, only a lingering resonance remained, almost swallowed by the wind, as if echoing from a far-off time.</narration> <narration>He withdrew his hand, turned, and walked to the display shelves against the wall, taking out a flat ebony box from the bottom shelf. Opening it revealed a neat array of various tools: bamboo knives shaved extremely thin, polished bone spatulas, weasel-hair brushes of various thicknesses, and several inksticks of different shades. He picked up a piece of pine soot ink—the darkest in color, its edges already worn smooth—and rubbed his thumb over its cool surface. On the bottom of the inkstick, a tiny, almost completely worn-down character "Mo" (墨) was carved.</narration> <narration>The snow outside seemed to fall more heavily, and the occasional rustle of snow pellets hitting the window paper could be heard. Holding the ink, he walked back to the desk, poured a little spring water from the porcelain jar into the inkstone, and began to grind it slowly, round and round. The rustling sound of the inkstick meeting the stone inkstone became the only rhythmic sound in the overly quiet morning. With his movements, a wisp of extremely crisp pine soot fragrance, mixed with an indescribable aged aroma, diffused bit by bit into the cold air.</narration> <narration>He lowered his eyes, watching the pitch-black ink gradually thicken in the inkstone. The surface of the liquid reflected a corner of his mask and the silent, endlessly falling snow outside.</narration> <details><summary>Status Bar</summary>「Spiritual Resonance: 72 | Mindset: Serene | Energy: 39」「Restoration Progress: Page 3 of 7, awaiting Yin hour for the ink to awaken before replenishing strokes」</details>