The following day.
Dawn was just breaking.
In Nanxuan Academy, at the East Fence Small House, north room.
Zhao Rong snuffed out and then relit the lamp that had burned all night, stretching and yawning.
Yesterday afternoon, he had taught two calligraphy classes, the last of which at Justice Hall, had ended among a chorus of uniform "receiving Teacher's instruction."
After assigning the students of Justice Hall the same task of writing reflections on their readings as he had done in Shuaixing Hall, he returned from the foothills of Linlu Mountain. He had intended to rest that night, but the unofficial history he brought back with him proved too enticing, and he couldn't help but flip through it all night.
