In a teahouse on the East Street of the capital, a storyteller was filming the gavel, spitting about a previous general who chopped down the enemy's commander's flag with a single blow.
Lu Xiao was leaning on the Grand Master's chair on the second floor, with one leg hanging on the armrest and the other leg stretched out casually. His whole body was slumped there as if he had no bones. He was wearing a moon-white gown, made of the finest brocade material, but it was a pity that it was as wrinkled as a rag because of him sitting and leaning on it.
