Those who are trained in normal calligraphy will always remember the character. Wang Xizhi, the most energetic calligrapher in the Eastern Jin Dynasty in another world, once believed that the word "Yong" contained the eight methods of calligraphy. Each dot and stroke has its own meaning, and the eight strokes in "Yong" constitute the eight laws.

Ning Que's eyes became brighter and brighter. This character can be taken apart and then put back together, but it can be reassembled into any other character in the world. He can only read it with the eight rules of "eternal". Doesn't that mean he can pronounce every word as "brave"?

He knew it wasn't a clever approach, but a stupid one. No one knows if it works, but he can't suppress his inner desires and impulses. He took a deep breath and turned the book to the first page without hesitation.

"Heaven and earth breathe and rest..."

Ning Que stared at the first word in the first sentence of "tsk". More precisely, he sees not the whole character, but its first stroke. The long, flat stroke was like a sharp knife, slicing through the dark landscape of his mind, tearing it apart, allowing thin white light to shine through tiny cracks.

Then he looked at the second, the third. The words on the page appeared behind his eyes and into his brain, but it did not form a complete meaning.

He can see the word, but is only allowed to see the strokes, not the entire character in his brain. It sounds simple, but it's hard, and it's not something that normal people can do.

Fortunately, Ning Que has been practicing calligraphy tirelessly for nearly 20 years. Deconstructing characters is his innate skill. Every calligrapher must be able to reconstruct the characters in order to write each character well. He is now forcibly cutting off the last and most important part of calligraphy in his brain. If his brain tries to reconstruct these characters, the character of "Yong" will become useful. He would automatically see the word as "Yong" and not as part of the "The" character!

Even for him, it is difficult to see fiction as reality. At this moment, he had gathered all his energy. The hand holding the book trembled slightly. The back of his uniform was soaked with sweat. His eyelashes fluttered wildly, and his lips pursed tightly, as if he had tried calligraphy for the first time as a child.

The words were no longer vague, shaking violently in his mind as they entered his eyes today. Instead, they appear clearly in his sight, quietly tamed like a leaf floating on the surface of a still lake.

Ning Que had forgotten how these words tortured him, and just looked at the brushstrokes silently. He looked at the various brushstrokes that made up the character, and felt as if he could see the breeze through the lake. The leaves drift eastward, westward, far away or close to him.

There were no strong winds and waves, and no thunderstorms. There are also no packs of wolves gathering on the grasslands. Basking in the warm afternoon sun, he sat on the floor of the bookshelf, his eyes lightly blindfolded. His hands no longer trembled, his tense body and pursed lips loosened. He didn't faint and didn't vomit. Everything was calm.

The beginning of the breeze and the end of the breeze are always gentle. Outside, the insects once again sang happy songs, celebrating a happy spring day and celebrating the curious world in front of them. The soft spring breeze blew their songs, carried them into the windows, into the building, and into the lads inside. It fluttered his robes and rushed at him like an unseen force.

The wind blew the front of his school robe, turning back against a part of his chest, like a spring breeze dancing on the gentle waves of a lake. Pushing the leaves on the water in all different directions, they eventually touched the rocky end of the lake and turned back. It can neither reach the shore nor tear it apart.

The female instructor at the east window seemed to sense something. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her face upward, listening to the song of the insects outside and the movement of the spring breeze. She turned to the young man in front of the west window and smiled softly.

Rest...

Ning Que watched the character rest, absent-minded for a moment. His gaze subconsciously left the book, and the whole character floated on his face and drifted into his eyes. There was a splash, like a mischievous child shepherd throwing a stone into a lake, causing the water to gush out, shaking the leaves. His mind was buzzing, and then he was startled before he regained consciousness.

Although he has experienced it many times, the role of "Rest" has had a great influence on his thinking. He muttered disgruntled and lifted himself off the ground with his right hand. He turned his pale face away with all his might, not daring to look at any of the characters in the book.

Even so, there was an irrepressible smile on his pale face. He knew he saw the doorway. Although the message leaver did not intend to open the door, at least he did not faint after opening the door. He also had a sense of insignificance, and if he continued to read in this way, whether or not he could catch a glimpse of the wonders of cultivation, it would be beneficial to his calligraphy art.

He was not in a hurry to get up, but sat cross-legged in the sun. He closed his eyes, recalling how he had felt, searching for the brushstrokes in the depths of his soul, the leaves scattered on the surface of the lake.

He didn't know how much time had passed. He opened his eyes, grinned, and walked over to the desk in the west window. He held up a brush and a new piece of paper. After thinking about it, he began to write replies to the people who left him messages.

Before writing down the solutions and problems, he sincerely thanked the person and hoped that the person would give him some pointers. Finally, he asked, quite seriously: "Reading while contemplating is like watching the leaves float on the surface of a lake." Is this the intention of the rune master who wrote this sentence? The leaves are erratic, but seem to follow a set of rules. I felt ...... in the ocean of qi"

"Probably... Is this the power of the mind?

Ning Que stretched the paper out of the window with two fingers, wiping off the wet ink in the warm sunlight and spring breeze. Once he was sure there was no problem, he carefully folded the paper and tucked it back into the place he first found in the book.

He stood up, stuck the book in its place, and walked to the east window. He bowed deeply and politely to the female lecturer, who nodded in return.

He was supposed to go downstairs, but suddenly a thought struck him. The female professor wrote in the old library for many years. She must be someone in the academy. She's so quiet and friendly, and if the person who left him a message is willing to give him some pointers, who's to say she wouldn't?

As a poor lad with more than 2,000 taels but still having to count pennies in a simple breakfast, he thought he had to take the opportunity. After a pause, he said respectfully, "Teacher, I forced myself to forget the shape of the words and have a little knowledge. I wonder if this method is good?

The female professor looked at it. There was silence for a few moments before a soft smile appeared on her lips. "According to the rules of the academy, even students who have not yet entered the magic course on the second floor can only rely on themselves to read books to comprehend the books here. You don't have the potential to cultivate, however, you understand it all through sheer determination. While what you understand may not be entirely correct, it's still commendable. I can't break the rules of the house, so that's all I can say.

Ning Que bowed deeply and said politely, "Teacher, thank you for your advice."

The female professor looked at the small letters she had written for countless years, and said calmly, "I forgot the shape of the characters when I deliberately read them." Intentional unintentional is a form of psychology.

...

...

Ning Que knew that he had not yet reached the stage of reading the character, but he had forgotten its shape. All he's doing now is tearing down the character. Far from that stage. He didn't know what that meant, and he couldn't help but shake his head. He muttered to himself what the professor had said, and then walked down the stairs.

It was late at night, and the first floor of the old library was unexpectedly noisy as usual. Situ Yilan walked to the front with Jin Wucai, while Chu Youxian stood on the edge of the stairs. Farther away near the bookshelf, stood Xie Chengyun and Zhong Dajun.

Is this retinue waiting for him? Ning Que looked at his peers downstairs and was dumbfounded. He asked Chu Youxian next to him, "What's the matter?"