A mansion, home owner's other courtyard.

Song Yanzheng is sleeping in a reclining chair with an air of freehand brushwork. One of the poems and Yueyue on both sides is feeding the fruit to his mouth and the other is massaging it for him.

Not far away, Zhou Yaner stood there in an independent position with golden chickens, his hands stretched flat, and a rope was hung on each arm, on which a jack of basalt was tied.

Wei Le stood by with a whip full of sharp thorns. As long as Zhou Yaner's movements were out of shape, he would be hit by a whip.

She has been standing...