Suddenly.
Zhao Rong's hand holding the scroll of book lifted, and as Yourong was caught off-guard, it fell again.
Thud—!
A somewhat muffled sound, coming from the thick scroll, intimately contacted her high-bunned hair and the exposed snow-white forehead.
She had been ambushed again.
The woman in the Confucian robe narrowed her willow eyes, and in the next moment, she took the scroll from Zhao Rong's hands.
Zhao Rong, facing her sideways, his lips curled up slightly, not using any strength, letting her take the book.
Yourong, holding the scroll, brandished it mockingly about a foot above Zhao Rong's forehead.
The latter did not dodge.
But in the end, the scroll did not come down to seek revenge.
Because he was writing.
Yourong put down the scroll, propped up her chin, quiet as a cat, watching him.
Zhao Rong sensed that the woman beside him had no follow-up and looked up at her with a slightly surprised expression, whispering,
