Thud, thud—
Zhu Weirui slightly lifted her chin, her hands normally resting at her waist, as she freed one to knock gently on the desk in front of the man with a stack of rolled-up scrolls, her voice clear, "Zhao Ziyu, where is your writing?"
Upon hearing this, Zhao Rong looked down, reopened the heavy book he was holding, and then reached out his right hand. On his right side of the desk, a few red maple leaves quietly lay, brought by the earlier Jiang Feng. He picked up a perfectly red maple leaf and tucked it into the page of the book, then closed it.
Amid numerous gazes, Zhao Rong looked up and shrugged as he confessed, "Mr. Zhu, with my classmates setting such brilliant examples, I find myself uninterested in writing and dare not exhibit my poor skills, so I choose to abstain."
Laughter erupted around him.
