After a while, a mournful erhu melody drifted from the lake.
Everyone on the island looked over, only to see an old man sitting alone at the bow of the boat, playing the erhu.
The sound was lamenting and plaintive, full of yearning and sorrow.
It was a melody that provoked wistfulness, enhancing the sense of melancholic autumn.
In autumn, one plays the erhu; in spring, the Guqin is strummed.
In the season of autumn sorrow, only the erhu matches the mood.
Lin Yingying, with a frown, whispered, "This old guy is still quite the artsy youth."
Long Fei stared blankly at the old man.
He was none other than Old Man Mu, the one who, when Long Fei first arrived in the city, made him earn his living by picking up trash.
The small boat moved without oars and stopped more than fifty meters away from the island.
On the island, Hemao Dekang drew a Dongying Longsword and plucked at the blade to produce strange sounds.
