The old storyteller hesitated for a moment, steadied his emotions, then struck the storyteller's block again and continued the tale of the thousand swords tearing through the sky.
But the atmosphere in the teahouse had already faded.
Young Master Zhao listened for a while, yawning repeatedly. Then, all of a sudden, he raised a hand.
"Stop."
The old man's voice cut off instantly. He bent forward, waiting.
Young Master Zhao did not even look at him.
His eyes shifted lazily to the young girl standing beside him.
"Your story is terribly made up. But this girl... her music is actually somewhat interesting."
He raised two fingers and crooked them toward the stage.
"Come here. Pour tea for this young master."
The girl hugged her guqin tightly and looked timidly toward her father.
The old storyteller hurriedly forced a smile.
"Young Master, surely you jest. We are merely storytellers, father and daughter, here to perform. She is not—"
"I said I want her to pour tea."
