A Yin carried her high heels, and returned to the alley, hobbling on bare feet. Wu Qian was startled when she called out for him; this lady who had been bright and neat on leaving now had hair in complete chaos, her sleeves wrinkled and creased in circles, the makeup on her face smudged frightfully, a small amount of her brilliant red rouge smeared by the side of her mouth, and she panted as she gazed at him. It was only the loss of love, yet she'd been tormented into this devestating state. Wu Qian put the book aside without batting an eyelid, and didn't say anything. A Yin smoothed her hair out, yet her first sentence was in a violently critical tone. "I say, your Taishan seat, is it poorly equipped or what?" Where had these words come from? Wu Qian didn't understand. A Yin fell onto the stool, her tone still uncharitable. "In the past, you said that the registry in the seat regulates the date of birth and the cause of death; so, if this many ghosts are stu...