When Ai Hui saw a real person disintegrating into the air like a wisp of smoke, he felt an indescribable shock and a faint tinge of sadness. He had seen many deaths. Some were heroic, some were tragic. The withering of a life was like the withering of a flower. However, when the next spring arrived on the earth, the withered flower would blossom once more, but not the withered life.
There were four seasons in life. The spring of adolescence, the summer of youthfulness, the autumn of confidence, and the winter of obsolescence. However, there would only be one cycle of life.
What kind of reason would make one’s death justifiable?
Ai Hui’s gaze was fixated on the completely empty sky. Suddenly, he laughed at himself. Since when did he become so melancholy?
He did not know whether or not Fu Huaien vanishing into thin air had caused him to feel an indescribable calmness.
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