As Zhao Yizhong awakened, a swarm of people rushed over to him.
"Elder Zhao, it's so great that you're alright. Just now, watching you in pain, my heart ached like a knife twisting inside."
"Elder Zhao, with such great luck and longevity, is naturally meant to live a hundred years."
Some even squeezed out a few tears, wiping their eyes as they spoke: "It's good that Elder Zhao is fine, really good."
The crowd around Zhao Yizhong was overly solicitous, each person pretending to be deeply concerned, even more so than for their own fathers.
Zhao Yizhong caught his breath and regained some strength. Just before, he had been unconscious, feeling like his spirit had left his body, like rootless wood or duckweed, tottering in the cold and empty space, as if a gust of wind could blow him away.
Ordinary people couldn't see Zhao Yizhong, but he could see everything in the hall.
He was crystal clear about their actions.
