The rain in late spring, with its unique softness in the south of the Yangtze River, hit the courtyard wall paved with bluestone slabs diagonally, leaving water marks of varying depths. Chen Yuan sat on the bamboo chair in the corridor, holding half a dry cigarette between his fingertips. The sparks flickered in the rain and fog, but did not reach his lips. Wanqing could not smell the choking smell. Even though he was no longer the emperor who needed to rely on the smell of smoke to numb his nerves, this habit was just a habit of raising his hand occasionally.
