Hu Yanbo's calm voice carried clearly through the frozen deathtrap into the bamboo grove shrouded in hazy light, and into the simple bamboo pavilion deep within it.
Inside the bamboo pavilion, the scene was utterly different from the frozen, deathly silence outside. It was a world unto itself, warm and tranquil.
Beside the pavilion, a young woman in a plain white dress, her bearing as refined as an orchid in a secluded valley, played a zither with her eyes lowered.
Her fingertips flowed over the strings, producing clear, moving notes like a mountain stream or wind through pines beneath the moon.
At the center of the bamboo pavilion, a carefree, unrestrained figure sat beside a simple stone table.
He wore spotless white robes, ancient in style yet exceptionally well fitted.
Sunlight spilling down from some unknown source fell quietly over him, bathing him in a gentle halo.
The man was not stunningly handsome, merely refined and well proportioned, but a few conspicuous white strands were scattered casually through his long black hair, which was loosely gathered into a simple topknot with what looked like an ordinary wooden twig.
Yet this casual appearance, combined with the carefree bearing that radiated from within him, as though he were one with heaven, earth, and nature, made him seem like a banished immortal stepping out of a painting-a mountain breeze, the bright moon over a river, aloof and distant, a sight that made one forget worldly concerns.
Even the most handsome man in the world would probably have paled beside his unique presence.
Beside the stone table, a small red-clay stove burned quietly, warming an old-fashioned wine jar. Wisps of steam rose from its mouth, spreading the fragrance of wine through the pavilion.
Yet the white-robed man seemed utterly uninterested in the fine wine