The youth's voice was clear and melodious. He laughed heartily, his face slightly flushed with the scent of alcohol, his high ponytail swinging.
Though it was just the sound of tapping a sword, that sound was particularly pleasing to the ear.
Sitting cross-legged, drinking, playing the sword, and singing, he seemed to become the center of the place. The beauties around could not help but fix their gazes on him, their eyes inadvertently bearing hints of intoxication, as if they, too, were indulging in alcohol.
Surrounded by young and valiant youths, they understood the song, which seemed to celebrate their camaraderie. Yan Daiqing turned deathly pale. This time, it was genuine fear, a political instinct inherent to the child of a distinguished scholarly family—