As it turned out, dying wouldn’t stop suffering. Although she no longer had a sense of touch, or the five senses, or a heart that would shake in moments of sadness, she was still drowned by boundless pain, paralysing her with despair on the ground, wanting to cry and wail. But she didn’t have eyes, and couldn’t shed tears. Whether she banged on the door or shouted loudly, the world was forever filled with a terrible silence, and she could only watch blankly as Chen Man’s life slowly, bit by bit, seeped away. It was far too cruel; even more cruel than if she were murdered. On the verge of death, Chen Man heard some movement, and, with great difficulty, opened her eyes, seeming to see that person that she had yearned for day and night, still wearing the clothes she had when she’d left that day—that outfit that she’d gifted her, fairly expensive. When she had just received it, she had scolded her heavily, saying she shouldn’t recklessly spend her money, but the next moment, she’d eagerly

Chen Man sat at the head of the bed, tears dried up; the moon rose outside, then set, and the blood between her fingers slowly oozed out, then congealed; Chen Man, regardless of the changes in the world outside or her own body, seemed to be suspended in time, unmoving, unhurting, neither crying nor laughing. Jiang Xichu couldn’t believe that, because of her own death, Chen Man had become like this. She was shocked, so much so that she overlooked an important matter: there wasn’t anyone who would become distraught because of the death of a close friend. Only someone who had lost their greatest love, their entire world, would act like this. For an entire three days, Jiang Xichu remained at Chen Man’s side, not going anywhere, watching Chen Man’s unresponsive form; within those three days, she only ate twice: one container of yoghurt, the one that Jiang Xichu had bought for her, treating it as a snack, for her to drink at her leisure so she could get more nourishment, which had already ex

The young man and the older gentleman had both heard the furious words Jiang Xichu had let out, but having heard it, they acted the same as if they hadn’t. The ghosts who wanted to crawl their way back to the human realm after dying were numerous; who would succeed? They would still have to obediently crouch outside to wait for registration, come in as quickly as possible and find a job they could provide for themselves with—that was honourable. Being a person was hard, and being a ghost, well, that wasn’t easy either. Jiang Xichu walked out to where that wretched young lady was crouching at the entrance, and estimated she would still have to wait a lot longer. Jiang Xichu crouched down next to her, and asked, “Do you know where the exit to return to the human realm is?” The young lady blinked, and said, “Of course I know.” Having said this, she pointed towards the distant light, which Jiang Xichu had assumed all along was the sun, because looking at it, it was very similar to the sun;

Jiang Xichu’s chest rose and fell heavily, and she angrily paced around the office three times, and only then returned to the front of Chen Man’s desk, her hands pressed against the desk, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk, and she said, angrily, “How is it that you can’t understand what I mean? That piece of land can’t be invested in; ten years ago it was the mouth of a chemical plant’s draining pipe—if you were to buy that, you’d need to compensate for your bias!” Chen Man looked at her coldly, and said, “I already said, I’m preparing to buy that piece of land; so what if the quality of the ground isn’t any good? I’m not wanting to grow a farm crop on it!” “Then what are you preparing to do with it? I’m telling you, what can that piece of land even do?!” Jiang Xichu glared; someone without knowledge would think that she was the CEO; not to be outdone, Chen Man returned her glare, and after a long while, she let out a cold scoff, and said, “I’m not telling you.” Jiang Xichu cho