He drew one stroke after another. Each time Su Ming lifted his right hand and drew with his index finger, the space before him would disappear slowly layer by layer like he was tearing off layers of membranes.
He did not know how much time had passed by, but Su Ming’s actions in copying the sword stroke were gradually slowing down.
Time continued passing by as he continued drawing. Su Ming did not know how many strokes he had drawn and just how many times he had copied the trajectory of the sword.
He might not know the specifics, but he knew that each time he drew, while each stroke seemed the same, but in truth, they were all different. If he drew it 1,000 times, then those 1,000 strokes were different from each other. If he drew them 10,000 times, then those 10,000 strokes would be different from each other!
Yet he still had not found the grief that spread out when Si Ma Xin swung the sword, it was as if he could not fuse that emotion with his stroke.
