In the quiet room,
Zhou Ping'an sat before the grinding stone, listening to the man-made brook tinkling as it flowed, his mood neither sad nor happy, quietly watching the black and white stone in his palm.
This stone was somewhat strange; when he concentrated his spiritual power to observe, he would realize that it actually had no real form but was instead a vortex, emanating a sense of ancient desolation.
As long as he withdrew his Divine Will and just looked with his naked eyes, it appeared as a finely crafted and delicate piece, like a piece of top-grade jade used for decorative purposes.
The touch in his palm was consistent with what he saw with his eyes, smooth, delicate, and warm...
Then, when his gaze shifted away and he no longer focused on the stone, he could no longer see even a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.
