"Nothing to do at the moment—why not compose a poem?"
Chen Yi lightly tapped the blade of his sword. The sound it made was like music, the wind adding to the mood. He thought to recite a poem…
But he couldn't.
Instead, he only managed to embarrass himself a little…
He knocked on the scabbard again, clearing his throat, thinking to sing a song…
But there were too many people, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Out of options, Chen Yi patted his waist, contemplating drinking some wine to pass the time…
But his hands came up empty—he suddenly remembered he didn't even have a habit of drinking.
