Meng Zhi had wanted to keep pouring out his thoughts, but he saw that the white-haired old man had already turned over and begun to snore.
Within the quiet little shop, there was no sound besides that faint noise.
Meng Zhi could not help studying the old man's profile closely.
His face was crisscrossed with furrows, skin hanging from flesh, flesh clinging to bone. Together with that head of tangled gray hair, everything spoke of the old man's age.
Yet more than a decade ago, Meng Zhi had already heard the neighbors speak of this old man.
At the time, he had not paid it any mind.
An old wolf at the edge of death always had to find somewhere to bury itself.
As for so-called fortuitous encounters, they were nothing more than something to smile at.
Meng Zhi had never believed in such things.
He firmly believed that relying on oneself was better than begging others.
As long as he worked hard himself, he would eventually accomplish something great.
Until one day, when he had wandered dazedly into this little shop and perused a scripture.
When he asked about the author, he learned that the old man was no ordinary person.
After that, he began coming often.
It was not because he had realized the old man was some reclusive master beyond the mortal world, but because his purse was thin. These scriptures might not be worth much elsewhere, but for him, every bit saved counted.
Since there was a place where he could read them for free, he was not so lofty that he would shut his eyes and refuse to look.
When he truly could not avoid it, he would bring over two jugs of good wine.
Meng Zhi's steps paused slightly at the door.
If it