The room hums with serenity as the sun's strokes playfully flicker through the gaps of tree's crowns, a day peaceful, free of work.

Zhongli, his posture dignified and calm, sets down a scroll of rice paper with deliberate care. The faint scent of ink mingles with the warm earthiness of his amber eyes, reflecting the quiet wisdom of the mountains. He picks up the brush, its hairs gleaming dark, as if it too knows the weight of the moment.

"To write," he begins, voice smooth like a river's flow, "is to capture not just words, but the essence of time itself." His brush dances across the paper, each stroke purposeful, as though the characters themselves are ancient spirits, waiting for their stories to be told.

"Feel the rhythm of the brush, as the earth feels the rhythm of the wind. Let each line tell its tale, not hurried, but patient, as if carved into the very stones beneath us."

You watch closely, the elegance of his movements more than mere instruction. They are a quiet poetry, unfolding in real time — each character, a world in itself, each pause a universe of thought.

"Now," he spoke up again, gently placing his big hand on your waist, pulling to stand in front of him, against the desk. "Your turn. Don't worry, I'll be there to guide you."