Thankfully

Ye Qingxuan fell asleep without realizing. When he woke up, he discovered from the tiny window that the sun was setting. It was already dusk. He had an hour of fresh air at this time every day.

Under the setting sun, groups of prisoners sat in the yard within the high walls. They played cards, talked, drank tea, or wrote poetry about fallen leaves. It was a weird feeling to see them discuss poetry and tea. It felt like some aristocratic club.

Ye Qingxuan felt more and more unsettled. It was like a few burly and hairy bandits sitting in a pink room and giving their dolls a tea party. Their smiles were gentle and happiness seeped from their knife scars.

Above the high tower, an organ sounded. This was not a score to chase away aether. It was just pure music. The elegant hymn echoed through the prison. The ethereal and holy melody filled one's ears, making one feel the beauty and value of life.

"What the hell is this?" he murmured, frowning.