In the small tower where the master of Lingxiao Pavilion lived alone.
The elegant and otherworldly Ye Lingxiao held a paintbrush in hand, delicately tracing lines on a painting.
Ye Qingyu, on the other hand, was idly flipping through an ancient tome in front of the bookshelf.
"Dad," she asked casually, "what did Du Ruhui talk to you about when he came over the other day?"
Ye Lingxiao stopped painting, and with a teasing look, turned to his daughter, "Is it you who wants to know, or is it that young man who's curious?"
Ye Qingyu crinkled her nose, "What's with 'this young man, that young man'? He has a name."
"True. His family name is Jiang, and you can call him Brother An An." Ye Lingxiao rolled his eyes. "That's the kind of significance he holds in my heart."
