Chapter 933 – Rhindor

Mo Lan watched the Elves practicing their writing on the grass.

They were all underage Elves, yet the age gap among them spanned several decades to over a hundred years—after all, Elves didn’t reach adulthood until one hundred. The youngest among them were already in their teens, with builds comparable to human young adults. Even standing ramrod straight, Mo Lan barely reached their knees.

But the enormous disparity in size did nothing to dampen Mo Lan’s desire to learn. She lifted her head and said to Matil, “I want… to try.”

The smile on Matil’s face deepened. She led Mo Lan toward the male Elf elder who was slowly patrolling among the children, his demeanor gentle and composed.

“Rhindor,” Matil began softly, “little Moira wants to try too!”

Instantly, the gazes of every Elf in the vicinity snapped to Mo Lan in unison.

The sight of her birth just days ago was still fresh in their minds, and the Elves quickly recognized her.

“It’s her! The child of the Tree of Life!”

“Tree Spirit above, it’s only been a few days, hasn’t it? She can already stand and walk on her own?”

“Look at her eyes—so clear and bright! Was that Elvish she just spoke? She can speak proper Elvish when she can’t even breathe evenly yet. As expected of the Tree Spirit’s child!”

“She’s so tiny—can she even hold a pen?”

These underage Elves had not yet learned to conceal their emotions. Listening to their candid exclamations and feeling every gaze converge upon her, Mo Lan could only struggle to keep her small face taut and maintain an outward calm, barely managing to keep her inner embarrassment from showing.

After all, her rapid progress was only because she wasn’t actually a small child.

Rhindor’s gaze settled on Mo Lan. “Welcome, little Moira!”

His voice was like aged mead—rich and warm—invisibly dispelling some of the discomfort Mo Lan felt from being the center of attention. He pointed to an empty cushion padded with thick moss. “Come, sit here.”

Mo Lan did as she was told, walking over and sitting down on the soft cushion.

The young Elves beside her appeared to be around ten to twenty years old, currently at the stage of learning Vine Script.

They studied this tiny newcomer with curiosity, their eyes brimming with wonder.

An Elf girl with two elaborately braided vine-plaits and eyes as brilliantly blue as a summer sky was the first to lean over.

With a touch of small pride, she handed Mo Lan several sheets of light-colored bark paper that gave off a faint, delicate fragrance and had an exceptionally smooth texture. Her voice rang out crisp and clear: “Moira, here! This is waterproof bark paper my dad made specially for me last year—it won’t wrinkle even if soaked in rain! I scented it with lily-of-the-valley essential oil so it smells lovely. You can use it! When you run out, just ask me for more!”

Mo Lan accepted this gift imbued with both thoughtfulness and fragrance. She could feel the care that had gone into preparing the paper. Before she could even offer her thanks, a boy Elf beside her—his face adorned with a few endearing freckles, his hair a warm chestnut brown—scratched his head somewhat shyly, then pressed a grass-stalk pen that looked painstakingly crafted into Mo Lan’s hand.

“This… this is one I made myself. It doesn’t look very pretty, but it works really well! It’s for you.”

His eyes shone with hope that his gift would be liked.

Immediately after, another Elf girl with neat, cropped short hair said nothing at all. She simply and silently scooted her cushion closer to Mo Lan, then pushed a small ink pot filled with dark green liquid into the space between them.

She glanced up at Mo Lan and added in a soft voice, “Let’s share one bottle of ink. This ink is made from water-wash flower juice. If you make a mistake… just wipe it with water and the marks come right off. Very convenient.”

Faced with this wave of pure, enthusiastic helpfulness, Mo Lan felt a gentle warmth kindle in her heart.

She asked each of them their names, then thanked them earnestly: “Polly… big sister, Domi… Nick… big brother, Celine… big sister, thank… you!”

The three young Elves whose names had been called all broke into happy smiles.

“Go on and give it a try! If there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask us!” Polly said.

Rhindor also smiled encouragingly at her. “Just practice freely using the Vine Script templates from your inherited memory. Perhaps you could start by writing your own name?”

On the grass, all the young Elves were doing much the same thing.

They furrowed their brows slightly, straining to recall the elegant Vine Script templates stored in their inherited memories, while simultaneously battling with the uncooperative grass-stalk pens in their hands and the wobbly, wayward lines that kept appearing on their paper.

Mo Lan first gently ran her fingertips over the texture of the bark paper, then gripped the grass-stalk pen that felt somewhat oversized in her hands.

The feel of the pen shaft was unfamiliar and unique. She made several minute adjustments to the position of her fingers before finally finding a relatively stable and comfortable grip.

Mo Lan had long since committed the nature Elves’ inherited memory to heart—she could put pen to paper without needing to recall anything.

The first few strokes came out slightly stiff and unsteady due to her unfamiliarity with the tools and the subtle differences in her hand strength. But after writing just a few characters, her wrist became remarkably steady, guiding the pen tip to leave clear, flowing dark green traces on the bark paper.

A main vine extended out with graceful curves, splitting into perfectly proportioned tendrils. Several leaf-shaped symbols carrying specific meanings were placed with precision at the vine’s key nodes.

The overall structure of the name, the proportions between each element, and even the aesthetic beauty and spirit inherent to proper Vine Script were all rendered with unmistakable clarity.

“Uh…” Dominic had just been secretly celebrating his triumph over hand tremors—he’d finally managed to produce a line that could at least be recognized as a tendril. Instinctively, with a hint of showing off, he glanced sideways at the little one’s “work,” ready to receive a gasp of admiration.

However, when he saw the handwriting on Mo Lan’s bark paper—script that could practically rival the templates in their inherited memory—his entire body froze as if struck by a binding spell.

His mouth fell open of its own accord, forming a perfect, round “O.” His eyes went wide as saucers, as though he’d just witnessed a wood sprite tap-dancing among the branches.

His reaction was far too conspicuous. Polly and Celine craned their necks to look as well.

The next moment, a burst of barely contained gasps and exclamations erupted among the group of young Elves.

“Wow! Moira, you… your writing is so beautiful!”

“This… isn’t this even more precise than Tally’s Vine Script? And Tally’s already started learning Flowing Wind Script!”

“Goodness, were you practicing with your fingers while you were still in the Life Cocoon? How can your writing possibly be this good?!”

Tally, not far away, heard this and curiously came over to look. “It really is very precise!”

…