The teahouse was noisy. The storyteller was stunned, and there was a roar of applause.
Only the seat next to the window on the second floor was as quiet as another place.
Dongfang Qinghe poured himself a cup of tea. The tea was ordinary bird's tongue, slightly astringent in the mouth, but he drank it slowly, as if it was some kind of fine wine. There was a chessboard in front of him, with black and white pieces scattered around. It was an end game played by himself.
He was wearing a moon-white robe. The material was good, but it was so plain that he didn't even bother to embroider a moire pattern. The sunlight filtered in through the carved wooden window and hit his face, illuminating his very light amber eyes like glass, transparent but also cold.
When looking at people with those eyes, there is always a smile, but the people being looked at, such as the strong man downstairs who had just been led to the seat by the waiter, felt uncomfortable all over, as if he was being seen through by this look inside and outside, and he couldn't even hide the few steamed buns he ate last night.
The strong man moved his buttocks and subconsciously avoided that line of sight.
Dongfang Qinghe paid no attention to him and returned his attention to the chessboard. He held his chin with his left hand, revealing a wrist that was covered by a sleeve and was very white. A strand of natural silver hair hangs down from the left temple, making the rest of the black hair even darker.
The most eye-catching thing is the crimson tassel around his waist.
