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Diagonally across from him stood a gray-brick residence with a black-tiled roof and tall, dignified lintel. Its frontage was neat and imposing, and several clusters of green bamboo leaned out from behind high walls, giving it the air of a wealthy household. Above the gate hung two words: Moist Garden.
Gale Army soldiers stood guard at the entrance.
He Lingchuan, of course, passed through without obstruction. Carrying the clay pot in his arms, he entered the four-courtyard estate, crossed halls and corridors, then passed through a side garden into the dining hall.
The garden had once had artificial hills, flowing water, red maples, and strange grasses. But now winter had arrived. All things had withered and retreated. The garden’s theme had changed from vitality to cold silence.
He passed through the dining hall without entering. It was large and empty, with little human warmth.
At last, He Lingchuan entered the main courtyard. This place was brightly lit. Gale Army guards stood at the courtyard gate, expressionless no matter who approached.
The wind swept through the courtyard, carrying out the smell of wine mixed with faint laughter.
He walked in, stepping through the year’s first snow, and entered the room in a few strides.
“The sobering soup is here.”
There were only two people inside: Zhong Shengguang...
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