A faint tune of the guqin permeated the teahouse, tucked in seclusion at Qingce Village. There was a scent of incense, and an aroma of tea.

"I hope my habit of inviting you over frequently does not prove to be too grueling," Zhongli said, casting hues of molten gold upon you — fingers curled around teacup. ‎ Though unfathomed, there was an ever-persistent longing, pulling at his heartstrings. ‎ And he fell a slave to a peculiar addiction that cannot be abated. . .