Pàng Zǐ and Shòu Zi were busy in the kitchen, and the scent of cream and powdered sugar filled the “Endless” teahouse.”

  “Really can’t find him anymore?”

  "Where can we find it? Sha Luo, shouldn't you know better than anyone that yaokais that cannot survive the heavenly tribution will have no choice but to die? At most, they will leave behind a corpse. Since the other party is a tree yaokai, then you can go to his hometown to look for his corpse and use it to make a chair or stool as a souvenir."

  "Jiu Jue, you don't have to be so harsh with your words. I'm just asking casually!"

  Feeling stifled, I hung up the phone and, in my mind, cursed the arrogant man on the other end a hundred times.

  I admit, I′ve imagined Liang Yudong still being alive—like a soap opera plot where he meets a mysterious master or finds a hidden manual just in time to cheat death.

  The purity and hope in A-Liao's eyes made me impulsive, wanting to help her.

  But it was just a fleeting, unrealistic fantasy.

  A Liao's future happiness could only be achieved by her alone.

  I took a deep breath, stretched, and walked out of the room, humming an old, corny tune—Wishing You Peace.

  The computer on the table was left on, and the webpage dispyed a short introduction: “In his ter years, the Tang Dynasty poet Wang Wei secluded himself in Wangchuan Valley, where he is said to have personally pnted a ginkgo tree." In the center of the webpage, with a ginkgo tree as the backdrop, there were two lines of regur script—

  ′Carved beams of fragrant apricot wood, a roof woven with lemongrass,

  Clouds from within the rafters drift away to become rain upon the human world.′

  (Wang Wei, Tang Dynasty, “Wangchuan Collection. Apricot Pavilion)