The carriage stopped, and the Imperial College was in sight.
Wei Zhao's expression was cool, not even sparing him a glance before lifting the curtain and bending down to exit.
As for the porcelain box, it was tossed aside carelessly.
Within the gray high walls, ancient cypress trees stood solemnly. As the morning mist lingered, students in blue robes arrived one after another.
Wei Zhao's robe brushed over the stone steps, his steps light and steady.
Not far away was an old shop steaming glutinous rice cakes.
Wei Zhao lowered his gaze, but when the bamboo basket was uncovered, a white mist spread, and the sweet fragrance quietly climbed up to his nose.
He did not pause and continued forward.
Many students bowed and greeted Wei Zhao, to which he returned salutations one by one.
"Wei Zhao."
He Xuran blocked him at the entrance of the Imperial College.
