...Three breaths.
The night moon hung in the sky.
The waves on the Quchi were calm.
A melodious tune praising the moon drifted through the air.
Carried on the gentle breeze were the faint sounds of catchy poetry recitations and women's cheerful laughter.
On the Painted Boat.
Chen Yi watched the middle-aged Confucian Scholar, his expression calm as he said, "It seems my luck is quite good."
The middle-aged Confucian Scholar—or rather, Yan Fusha—stared at him blankly, seemingly not expecting him to be so calm, so decisive.
After a moment of silence.
A smile bloomed on Yan Fusha's simple face, followed by a burst of hearty, unrestrained laughter.
"You're not afraid."
"You're actually not afraid... HAHA..."
"Aren't you afraid of death?"
His laughter was loud, his tone inscrutable.
It carried far across the Quchi, which was illuminated by the glow of lanterns.
After a good while, the laughter died down.
