On the vermilion desk, the black paper lay spread out.
Thin fresh blood scattered about, incense ashes floating; no matter how much it was shaken, it remained disordered, unable to gather.
Zhu Zongwang refused to accept this as fact, knocking on the desk with increasing force.
However, the fine nanmu desk, even when knocked into a pair of hollow pits, still failed to gather the fate patterns.
Mouth dry, tongue parched.
"Hong Yuan, how many years of incense ash did you take?"
"Thirty mixed with fifty."
"Do you have any older than that?"
Huo Hongyuan, without wasting words, stepped out and then back in, a small ceramic jar abruptly placed on the desk.
"A hundred-year portion!"
Try again,
and knock again.
The incense ashes floating on the surface of the dispersed blood gradually began to move; Zhu Zongwang was overjoyed, but before they could coalesce into shape, the half-visible fate pattern again dissipated.
The slightly consoled heart plunged to the depths.
