Zheng Xiu felt the bones in his palm.
Wei Chen had said the bones in his palm were of a remarkable structure, a one-in-a-million specimen—ever-changing and unfathomable to both gods and ghosts.
Zheng Xiu didn't see it.
Could Wei Chen's words be trusted?
To be honest, his relationship with Wei Chen wasn't one where they'd bare their souls to each other.
They were more like partners of convenience, each with their own agenda, who had simply found common ground.
That was why Zheng Xiu remained skeptical of Wei Chen's words.
It was just that, at the moment, Wei Chen seemed to have no reason to lie to him.
A partnership, aligned interests, nothing more. Zheng Xiu liked maintaining this kind of pure relationship, one tinged with a healthy dose of pragmatism.
What was fate?
What was an ordeal?
What was preordained? And what was variable?
The Knife Seller, Sun Erming, had given Zheng Xiu a prophecy, but it had yet to come to pass.
Now Wei Chen had divined an ordeal for him.
