A long, long time.
Zhang Fusheng finally just wrote down.
[I will]
Then came a response in writing—[That's good].
Zhang Fusheng stared into space, suddenly sighing with melancholy.
Now, every day that passes, the 'future' where Saint Wei resides also passes by a day,
He had asked, and Saint Wei's place is ten thousand years later.
In other words, no matter what, he and the Saint will always be separated by ten thousand years, and the Saint will never see him,
To the Saint, his master has always vanished on that day ten thousand years ago.
"It's just..."
Zhang Fusheng muttered to himself:
"Why did this happen? The future is vague and ever-changing, but why did this particular possibility for Lingzhu remain?"
He didn't understand.
Zhang Fusheng pursed his lips, returning to the Eight Sceneries Palace, sitting upright on the meditation mat, the infinite high position add to him, trying to start calculations and deductions.
