The forest is lush and the children babble.
Under the ancient japonicum of the Mournful Emperor realm, Bei Huai and the phantom of the black-robed figure sit across the table, upon which are three bowls of blood-red liquid.
The vitality breath is extremely dense, nearly overflowing.
"You are more dim than before."
The gentle breeze brings the evening's mournful cry, exceedingly comforting.
With a poised demeanor, Bei Huai takes a sip from the blood wine before him, speaking with apparent ease.
Opposite him, the Ghost Ancestor's figure is hazy, and compared to the last time he appeared, there is a noticeable "virtualization".
He remains silent.
In Bei Huai's presence, the Ghost Ancestor is a miser with words.
This does not extinguish the enthusiasm of a solitary researcher of life; Bei Huai sets down the weathered stone bowl, gazing across, and speaks to himself:
