Afternoon.
The lingering chime of the clock on the mountain still echoes through the forest, but the warm breeze outside the window has already made the students in Shuaixing Hall somewhat drowsy.
This autumn sunlight is neither as scorching as summer nor as feeble as winter, but is just right.
Seated in the last row, Zhao Rong props his chin and enjoys the warm breeze outside the window. He watches the lady teacher, always carrying the scent of orchids, her delicate figure bathed in golden sunshine as she gracefully embraces a stack of thick papers and seriously walks onto the podium.
She took over the afternoon's two calligraphy classes, giving Zhao Rong a rare moment of relaxation. Yet, from entering the classroom until now, half a class has passed without the orchid-scented teacher glancing at the 'class-robbing' assistant, focusing solely on her teaching.
