At the end of the dilapidated alley, in an old restaurant, a corner of the dimly lit hall.
The dinner party on the table was nearing its end, yet none of the guests seemed in a hurry to leave; instead, all eyes were fixed on Zhao Rong's face.
They quietly awaited the answer to this amusing yet profound paradox.
Facing the expectant or solemn gazes of Zhao Xifu, Zhu Yourong, and Yu Huaijin, Zhao Rong thought for a moment, "Is my answer really that important?"
He was talking about his answer, not theirs.
Zhu Yourong and Yu Huaijin understood his meaning and exchanged glances.
Zhao Rong, who had been sitting somewhat relaxedly, suddenly straightened up.
His hands braced on his thighs, shoulders raised, he carefully stared at the empty wine pot on the table and spoke with a serious tone:
