To tear open the letter would be to grant death to others, then welcome death himself. But Chen Changsheng truly did not care.
Just as he had said to Eunuch Lin, he was at present truly not afraid of death, as there were no longer any matters he could not let go.
All the people and matters of this world had no meaning to him, because three days ago, he came to the sudden realization that his own existence had originally been itself meaningless.
He stood at the destroyed door of the library, holding the letter, quietly waiting for that moment.
The autumn breeze curled above the lake. A belt of light seemed to extend across the great banyan tree, which was still a flourishing green, a stark contrast with the golden-yellow leaves on the grass.
Time slowly passed, and the Orthodox Academy remained in peace.
Chen Changsheng raised his head to look at the gate, his eyebrows slowly rising, just like the fallen leaf that had just been swept up by the wind.
