He Qing said it was sixteen characters, and indeed not a single stroke was spared.
Bai Yuchun, after such a long ordeal, had already turned pale, with beads of sweat the size of soybeans rolling down her forehead. Due to the continuous pain, her peach-pink lips had long been bitten into a deep indentation. She looked disheveled yet tender, pale in a way that made one want to protect her.
After all, as He Qing carved out each character, because she had to wait for the spreading blood to stop, there were large breaks for rest in between. These sixteen characters, all in traditional form, amounted to a torture as severe as death by a thousand cuts.
However, thinking that today would be the last of feeling controlled by others, and seeing her teacher, whose face was even paler than hers with anxiety, Bai Yuchun felt an inexplicable sense of release and a slight thrill in her heart.
