Terror was not enough to describe Dao Yi's iron-hard will; perhaps "twisted" was more fitting. At the very least, Xiang Yang knew, upon searching his own heart, that he could not endure reliving the most painful memories and events of his life every single day.
"Alright, Xiang Yang. Straighten your clothes. We'll take you to pay respects to Lord Dao Yi."
Lan Zhiguo valued propriety above all else. Xiang Yang had traveled here through wind and dust alongside them and had no time to change into official robes, but his attire still had to be neat and tidy as a mark of respect.
When the four entered the tavern, they saw a scene entirely unlike an ordinary restaurant.
In ordinary taverns, people from all walks of life ate and drank, talked grandly and freely, and created a lively clamor. The place resembled a marketplace, and it was not uncommon for people to come to blows over a single disagreement.
This tavern, however, felt far more desolate. It was not that there were few patrons, but that every person drinking and dining had immersed themselves in the world woven by the erhu, unable to pull free for a long while.
Looking around, there were roughly ten large tables and twenty smaller ones in the first-floor hall, all occupied. Yet only faint sobbing could be heard. Many people held their chopsticks aloft as two streams of clear tears slid from their eyes. The sight was not only spectacular, but bizarre.
At the eastern corner of the hall, a white-clad man who appeared to be in his thirties sat upon a tall wooden stool, his eyes closed as he played the erhu, seemingly wholly immersed in it.
Yet the sadder his melody became, the calmer his expression grew. He seemed detached from the