The Storyteller

Just then, a sharp crack suddenly rang out in the hall.

Lu Huan poked her head out to look and immediately let out a soft "Eh?"

"Shen Hui, there's an official down there."

Shen Hui gave a noncommittal "Mm" and paid no attention.

But Lu Huan was no longer willing to eat properly.

She leaned farther over the railing, her ears pricked high, her bright eyes fixed on the storyteller below.

On a small wooden platform half a foot high in the hall, the storyteller slapped his wooden clapper against the table.

Crack!

The entire hall fell silent.

He cleared his throat, swept his gaze across the crowd, then picked up a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

"Honored guests, last time we spoke of how starving refugees covered the ground outside Zhaoyang Commandery City, yet the commandery governor fenced off the life-saving peaches to send them into the palace and claim credit. Today, we shall continue—the Old Daoist beheaded the commandery governor, lightning struck down wicked merchants, and blood became the Peach God!"

The guests in the hall had been eating, drinking, chatting, and laughing.

Yet when they heard the storyteller's booming, vigorous voice, every one of them set down their chopsticks and turned to look.

Seeing that everyone was watching him, the storyteller gave the clapper another heavy slap and began to narrate with vivid gestures and expressions.

"...The Old Daoist leaped down from the treetop, his sword light stretched like silk. With a single crack, the commandery governor's head, still wearing its black gauze cap, rolled away."

"...Shopkeeper Zhao was so frightened he nearly pissed himself. He had just turned to flee when the Old Daoist drew a yellow talisman from his robes and flung it into the sky."

The storyteller raised his head toward the heavens, his