Review Detail of GodOfLight in Naruto : Transmigrated as an Uchiha

Lord_Kemoyin:Unnecessary things like what? you can't just give a vague review like this

Daoistbm0BeO:in the fic this is how he would describe a wall. Imagine standing in a dimly lit room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through a nearby window. You're looking at a wall that seems to whisper stories from the past. Let me paint the picture for you. The wall in front of you is made of red bricks, but not the kind you see in new buildings. These bricks have seen better days; each one is slightly different in color, a testament to their age. Some are more faded, almost orange, while others retain a deeper, more earthy red. The mortar holding them together is a patchwork of whites and grays, cracked and crumbling in places. It's rough to the touch, with bits of dust and tiny fragments falling away if you brush against it. You notice that the surface isn't flat. Some bricks stick out a little more than others, creating a subtly uneven texture. Here and there, small gaps where the mortar has eroded away are filled with the dust of decades. It feels like the wall itself is breathing, its surface alive with the history it's absorbed. In the lower corners, you can see dark, damp patches where moss and lichen have found a home. These green and gray spots add an organic feel, as if the wall is reclaiming some of its old vitality. As your eyes travel upwards, you spot the faint remnants of old posters or notices. The paper is yellowed and curling at the edges, barely clinging to the brick. It’s like a memory trying to hold on, but slowly slipping away. Scattered across the wall are old scars and indentations. There's a small round mark where a nail might have been, and a broader, rough patch where something larger was once mounted. It makes you wonder what hung there – a picture, a mirror, or perhaps an old lantern? Speaking of lanterns, there are still a few wrought iron hooks embedded in the wall. They’re blackened and smooth from years of use, positioned at different heights as if placed there haphazardly over the years. Midway up, there's a wooden shelf supported by iron brackets. The wood is dark and polished from years of hands placing and removing objects. On it, a few dusty books and trinkets rest, each one an enigma. The books’ leather bindings are cracked and worn, hinting at the many times they’ve been opened and read. As the light filters in through the window, it casts a warm glow on the wall, highlighting the texture and creating intricate patterns of light and shadow. These patterns shift as the sun moves, making the wall look different throughout the day. Right now, the sunlight catches on the cobwebs in the corners, their delicate threads shimmering gently. Standing there, you can almost feel the history emanating from the wall. It’s not just a part of the building – it's a silent witness to all that has transpired in this room. Every mark, every faded poster, every bit of moss and dust tells a story. It’s like the wall is trying to communicate, sharing its memories with anyone willing to listen.

Daoistbm0BeO:in the fic this is how he would describe a wall. Imagine standing in a dimly lit room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through a nearby window. You're looking at a wall that seems to whisper stories from the past. Let me paint the picture for you. The wall in front of you is made of red bricks, but not the kind you see in new buildings. These bricks have seen better days; each one is slightly different in color, a testament to their age. Some are more faded, almost orange, while others retain a deeper, more earthy red. The mortar holding them together is a patchwork of whites and grays, cracked and crumbling in places. It's rough to the touch, with bits of dust and tiny fragments falling away if you brush against it. You notice that the surface isn't flat. Some bricks stick out a little more than others, creating a subtly uneven texture. Here and there, small gaps where the mortar has eroded away are filled with the dust of decades. It feels like the wall itself is breathing, its surface alive with the history it's absorbed. In the lower corners, you can see dark, damp patches where moss and lichen have found a home. These green and gray spots add an organic feel, as if the wall is reclaiming some of its old vitality. As your eyes travel upwards, you spot the faint remnants of old posters or notices. The paper is yellowed and curling at the edges, barely clinging to the brick. It’s like a memory trying to hold on, but slowly slipping away. Scattered across the wall are old scars and indentations. There's a small round mark where a nail might have been, and a broader, rough patch where something larger was once mounted. It makes you wonder what hung there – a picture, a mirror, or perhaps an old lantern? Speaking of lanterns, there are still a few wrought iron hooks embedded in the wall. They’re blackened and smooth from years of use, positioned at different heights as if placed there haphazardly over the years. Midway up, there's a wooden shelf supported by iron brackets. The wood is dark and polished from years of hands placing and removing objects. On it, a few dusty books and trinkets rest, each one an enigma. The books’ leather bindings are cracked and worn, hinting at the many times they’ve been opened and read. As the light filters in through the window, it casts a warm glow on the wall, highlighting the texture and creating intricate patterns of light and shadow. These patterns shift as the sun moves, making the wall look different throughout the day. Right now, the sunlight catches on the cobwebs in the corners, their delicate threads shimmering gently. Standing there, you can almost feel the history emanating from the wall. It’s not just a part of the building – it's a silent witness to all that has transpired in this room. Every mark, every faded poster, every bit of moss and dust tells a story. It’s like the wall is trying to communicate, sharing its memories with anyone willing to listen.

Daoistbm0BeO:in the fic this is how he would describe a wall. Imagine standing in a dimly lit room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through a nearby window. You're looking at a wall that seems to whisper stories from the past. Let me paint the picture for you. The wall in front of you is made of red bricks, but not the kind you see in new buildings. These bricks have seen better days; each one is slightly different in color, a testament to their age. Some are more faded, almost orange, while others retain a deeper, more earthy red. The mortar holding them together is a patchwork of whites and grays, cracked and crumbling in places. It's rough to the touch, with bits of dust and tiny fragments falling away if you brush against it. You notice that the surface isn't flat. Some bricks stick out a little more than others, creating a subtly uneven texture. Here and there, small gaps where the mortar has eroded away are filled with the dust of decades. It feels like the wall itself is breathing, its surface alive with the history it's absorbed. In the lower corners, you can see dark, damp patches where moss and lichen have found a home. These green and gray spots add an organic feel, as if the wall is reclaiming some of its old vitality. As your eyes travel upwards, you spot the faint remnants of old posters or notices. The paper is yellowed and curling at the edges, barely clinging to the brick. It’s like a memory trying to hold on, but slowly slipping away. Scattered across the wall are old scars and indentations. There's a small round mark where a nail might have been, and a broader, rough patch where something larger was once mounted. It makes you wonder what hung there – a picture, a mirror, or perhaps an old lantern? Speaking of lanterns, there are still a few wrought iron hooks embedded in the wall. They’re blackened and smooth from years of use, positioned at different heights as if placed there haphazardly over the years. Midway up, there's a wooden shelf supported by iron brackets. The wood is dark and polished from years of hands placing and removing objects. On it, a few dusty books and trinkets rest, each one an enigma. The books’ leather bindings are cracked and worn, hinting at the many times they’ve been opened and read. As the light filters in through the window, it casts a warm glow on the wall, highlighting the texture and creating intricate patterns of light and shadow. These patterns shift as the sun moves, making the wall look different throughout the day. Right now, the sunlight catches on the cobwebs in the corners, their delicate threads shimmering gently. Standing there, you can almost feel the history emanating from the wall. It’s not just a part of the building – it's a silent witness to all that has transpired in this room. Every mark, every faded poster, every bit of moss and dust tells a story. It’s like the wall is trying to communicate, sharing its memories with anyone willing to listen.