It didn't seem like much, a short text of less than a hundred words.
But if one had to write it a hundred times, it no longer was a simple matter.
He Xuerong saw Qiao Qingyu enter, her face displaying a plea for help as she pitifully whined with her wrist in hand, "Little aunt, my wrist really hurts."
Qiao Qingyu walked in as the two children fixed their gazes on her without blinking.
In a gentle and soft voice, Qiao Qingyu asked, "How many times have you written it?"
Li Mingguang hastily flipped open his notebook, and indeed he checked one by one. Qiao Qingyu wasn't in a hurry at all; this was something where she couldn't afford to be soft-hearted.
The children had to count for themselves to truly feel it.
Qiao Qingyu curved the corner of her lips; these children, though crafty and sharp, were still too naive.
Did they think writing a hundred times was as simple as counting from one to a hundred?
Otherwise, it would only get harder the more they wrote.
