As he glanced around, he suddenly noticed heat signatures stirring in a distant village. Quite a crowd had gathered, as if something lively was going on.
Could there be an opera performance? Whether it was a ceremony honoring the gods or the music and bustle of a funeral, as long as gongs and drums accompanied singing, a certain Black Flood Dragon had to go over and watch. He was never picky.
Concealing himself, he skimmed toward the village where the villagers had gathered.
Ordinarily, he either cultivated or read, tended the Medicine Field, pulled weeds, and turned the soil. Day after day passed in tedium and fatigue.
Opera was one of his few diversions.
The city's opera gardens offered lilting voices, elaborate makeup, and fine performances. Rustic country troupes were rougher, with earthy lyrics, while troupes hired for funerals had their own distinctive style. Each had its own tunes, and he enjoyed them all.
He had once invited his friends to watch with him, but Xiao Yu had no interest in the drawn-out, lilting singing.
Red Clothes preferred funeral troupes, especially those performing in the dead of night. Paper streamers swayed gently in the wind, and the mournful melodies of the suona had the richest flavor. He skimmed swiftly over fields where weeds flourished and crops grew sparsely, the low ground holding muddy water left by the Continuous Rainy Season.
Barefoot, bare-chested villagers bent over their work, sweat gleaming on the dark skin of their backs.
He slowed to a halt and hovered in midair, looking down at the village. Someone on a raised platform was shouting at the top of his lungs, while the crowd below prostrated themselves again and again. At first glance, it looked like a performance. After watching for a while, he understood. This was no