Liu Wuqiu had died.
That proud and roaring tiger's cry echoed throughout Wangxian County, and at dawn's break, as the silver moon that illuminated the night faded away, the breath within the wooden house slowly disappeared along with it.
His offspring had long scattered to flee for their lives because of their deeds. It was Wang Anfeng and the two others who buried him, in a small village that the old man had murmured about.
The villagers were simple and amiable, with flowers blooming beautifully, paths intersecting, and the sound of chickens and dogs heard in the distance. Yet, if one asked about Mei Chuxue, not a trace that she ever existed could be found—only the oldest villager with white hair vaguely remembered that there once was a young lady with a beautiful smile.
