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The clean and unadorned room did not have a lot of furniture nor decorative items. The old-fashioned table was filled with ancient blotches of peeling paint. The elm wood, which made up the pillars of the room, was rustic and firm. On the white wall, there was a hanging scroll placed upon it. Two words were written on the hanging scroll with forceful strokes: Beihai.

Plip, plop, plip, plop. The sound of raindrops falling on the eaves of the roof could be heard.

Two cups of steaming hot tea were placed on the table, separating the father and daughter sitting opposite each other.

Shi Beihai wore a blue-colored robe. His facial features bore a resemblance to Shi Xueman’s, but his expression was grave and stern, looking as if he was carved out of a coarse boulder. His neatly trimmed beard exuded vigor and hardiness.