As soon as Xiao Changyi mentioned the battlefield, An Jing thought of all the scars on Xiao Changyi's body and felt uncomfortable inside. Her brows furrowed slightly, but she did not ask any further. Instead, she said, "Your handwriting is prettier than mine."
She had practiced calligraphy with her grandfather, and it seemed she had been restrained by model calligraphy texts from an early age. Although her brush writing looked quite nice, it did not have the openness of Xiao Changyi's writing, nor did it have his grandeur.
Xiao Changyi was both amused and exasperated. "Why are you comparing your writing to mine?"
Without hesitation, An Jing lifted her chin with playful arrogance, "Haven't you realized by now that I have a very competitive spirit?"
Xiao Changyi's lips curved into a smile, and he remained silent. He simply reached out and gently touched her face.
