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Lately, Shu Yu had suddenly become fascinated with light spirits, concocted by his wife.

After dawn, he would light a few small braziers in the room, open the windows, and sit by the window in his wheelchair, warming up a pot of the mild liquor.

When the mood struck, he would even bring out his old guqin and play a few notes.

The sound of the guqin was clear and resonant, and next door, it was the sound of the guqin that had woken up his wife.

With a creak, a person, carrying a gloomy air and wrapped in a cotton jacket, stormed out from the wife's room.

Rushing to the window of Shu Yu's room, with hair as messy as a bird's nest and looking quite murderous, he exclaimed, "Elder brother, what are you playing early in the morning?"

Shu Yu calmly pointed and said, "Naturally, I'm playing the guqin." He cast a sidelong glance as if to say, aren't you blind — can't you see this guqin right here?