Ji Li did not believe that the coffin in the "Red and White Collision" he had seen months ago contained himself, just as the Sedan Chair at the time had also been empty.
It was merely that this strange connection across time and setting created an eerie, fated illusion.
He stood at the far left of the third courtyard, beside the steps of the west wing room, leaning coldly against them as he watched the funeral procession from a broader vantage point.
Whose funeral was being held in the Li Residence should, by all rights, have had nothing to do with him. But the person carrying the memorial portrait was slowly drawing closer, allowing the night to illuminate the face within the frame.
Sure enough, it was Ji Li himself being buried.
His neatly combed black hair, pale complexion—the black-and-white memorial portrait seemed to echo the manager portraits hanging in the Seventh Branch lobby.
Ominous signs were no longer taboo to the employees. What mattered was the Killing Method.
After the first group of mourners appeared, the severed head beneath the banquet hall let out an even heavier exhalation.
The second group consisted of four burly men carrying a heavy coffin. With every step they took, the severed head provided "sound effects" from behind the scenes.
"Woooo..."
The exhalations were followed by sobbing. Ji Li turned back to look at that bizarre severed head.
Its features were slightly distorted now. The corners of its mouth drooped, its brows trembled, and its facial muscles quivered faintly. It was not crying loudly, nor were its movements exaggerated.
But its gaze had not changed. Its pitch-black eyes remained fixed beneath its eyelids, neither turning nor moving. It was as though this so-called funeral held no genuine emotion at all, like a stiff performance.