The inn's chef excelled in Jiangnan home cooking, and although the wine couldn't match the refined taste found in big city inns, it was nevertheless rich and robust, offering a unique flavor when drunk.
At dinner time, the inn's ground floor was packed with martial artists from Jianghu, each broad-shouldered and burly, with fierce expressions, yet all were silent.
In the vast ground floor of the inn, the sound of heavy rain outside contrasted sharply with only the slow chewing sounds inside, creating an eerie atmosphere that made the shopkeeper's legs weak and his face pale, though he still forced a smile.
Wang Anfeng averted his eyes and felt that in Jianghu, every profession had its own hardships, and even heroes didn't enjoy the carefree life most imagined. He, himself, couldn't be a hero. For starters, the daily cost of maintaining his snow-white attire alone was countless silver coins.
