After that afternoon's powerful training scene, Gengyo had picked up his brush with conviction, and did not need to pause to think what he might be writing. Straight into the potted ink it went, and he dashed a series of lines and then characters onto the parchment. Within moments he'd made his thoughts clear, and he held it up in the candlelight, gently blowing on the ink to dry it.
The room that he'd fashioned himself was deep within the bowels of the palace, down as deep as the wine cellars. It was always cool down there, despite the heat of the outside. At times, if anything, it was too cool, but he much preferred the cold, it allowed him to think straight. It made him alert, and when he was alert he was confident.
