Calligraphy classes at Shuaixing Hall continued as usual.
Zhao Rong switched to a different teaching method, according to the plan he had set earlier.
He asked the Shuaixing Hall students to stay in the classroom to practice their writing while he provided guidance on the spot.
Zhao Rong had previously noticed that few people seriously read and corrected their work after receiving the painstakingly written comments and corrections on their assignments.
Thus, he decided to supervise them closely.
At this moment.
The hall was extremely quiet, without a single voice to be heard.
Only the sound of grinding inkstones and brushes rubbing against coarse rice paper filled the air intermittently.
All the students were hunched over their desks.
Zhao Rong walked back and forth between the seats, hands clasped behind his back.
He looked around attentively.
Morning sunlight streamed through the skylight at the top of the classroom, casting light upon Zhao Rong as he passed by.
