Fan Xian's left hand gripped the metal rod in his chest tightly. He felt the waves of icy coldness that came from the metal. Following the welling of fresh blood, his noses and throat filled with a sweetness that made one grow cold. Even his body was cooling down.
There was still not a speck of dust on the strip of black cloth in front of him. The simple but young face, without a single wrinkle, seemed to be retelling a story that was hundreds of thousands of years long.
Fan Xian stared in a daze at this familiar face and found that it was impossible to find any trace of familiarity in it. It was clearly still the same face and same piece of black cloth, but he knew clearly that the person in front of him was no longer Uncle Wu Zhu. At least, in this instant, he was not Uncle Wu Zhu.
This person was that person, yet he was not him. Twenty years of friendship, yet now they were like strangers meeting. It was a sorrowful and depressing matter.
