Old Liang's single room wasn't large, about fifty to sixty square meters, but unexpectedly tidy and clean.
The desk by the window had stacks of paper books, their covers yellowed and tattered, indicating their age.
The iron shelf behind was divided into two levels, with miscellaneous items piled atop and a plank with a mattress underneath serving as a bed, its headboard stacked with numerous massive tomes.
In the corner were empty wine bottles, a ceramic pot for brewing herbal medicine, a half-human-sized rice jar, and a vat for pickling vegetables, all contributing to a lived-in feel.
Old Liang sat at the bedside, changing into slippers:
"Boil your own water to drink, I won't entertain you."
Qin Shi glanced sideways, seeing Old Liang's skinny, lame leg resting on the bed's edge, shrunken significantly over the years, muscles severely atrophied and marred by rough, centipede-like scars.
It looked quite horrifying!
"How could I let Master Liang act?"
