Right hand holding a plum branch at an angle.
The cold plum was straight.
Sharp as a sword.
Mr. Lin's expression was calm, as if he had not seen the old man's vertically furrowed brows, and he said lightly,
"You've come..."
The Master looked up at Mr. Lin under the pavilion, slowly starting to speak. He wasn't as casual as in the Academy, nor as unconcerned as he was facing Ren Changge. His voice was low and calm, like distant thunder rolling over a snowy plain:
"This matter, you must have known before the time it took to burn a stick of incense."
"Lin Zizai."
His gaze fell on the already extinguished sandalwood on the stone table.
Looking at the remaining traces.
He had anticipated this point earlier, but for some reason, even knowing about it, he still had to come, had to see this face. This overt self-assumption, forcing one to follow his calculations, this 'obvious strategy,' made his expression somewhat solemn.
