The ghostly essence dissipated like fog; the hun military soldiers disappeared without a trace; a few shadows of different lengths appeared on the stone wall; venerable deities, ghosts, birds and beasts, and mortals, each portrayed extremely impartially by the light, the lacquer blackness causing everything to be flattened. Everyone gazed at Li Shiyi, holding entirely different thoughts as they analysed her reaction. But Li Shiyi only blinked, and said a single exclamation: “Wu.” She didn’t have any other words to say. She accepted this unusual identity ordinarily, lacking even a single superfluous interest to offer, only having a bit of a sense of being out of sorts; this sense of being out of sorts truly wasn’t on the two characters of Fujun, but rather had its origin in A Luo’s deferential kneeling motion. A Luo perceptively rose; Li Shiyi shifted her neck; her shoulders still ached a bit, and waved a practised wave with her hang, beckoning Song Shijiu to her side, squeezing the ha