Three days later, near the Seven Friends Restaurant, toward the end of Xu Hour.
As usual, Cao Shouyi personally carried two buckets of mixed rice to the alley entrance to feed the little beggars nearby. The moment those homeless waifs spotted the familiar "swill buckets," they crowded around like piglets at feeding time, fighting over the largest chipped bowls and scooping as much rice from the buckets as they could.
The half-grown children did not yet know that this might be their last meal of leftovers from the Seven Friends Restaurant. The Third Seat's disciple had already secretly informed Cao Shouyi that they would send him out of the Heavenly Capital at the beginning of Hai Hour that night.
Old Cao sat on the stone steps at the alley entrance as always, puffing away on his pipe. He really liked watching the little beggars eat from this angle. The lanterns and candlelight from the grand residences lit up the filthy waifs just right. There was no worry on their faces, no apprehension about the future, only expressions of ravenous hunger as they ate, watched the remaining rice out of the corners of their eyes, and stood ready to snatch another bowl at any moment.
Old Cao had grown up poor. He felt food only tasted good when you had to fight for it; mouths slick with grease and hiccups from eating too fast were what made people seem truly alive. He had wasted more than a hundred and sixty years, his cultivation had declined, and he had little lifespan left... he had stopped feeling fucking alive long ago.
The tobacco burned out, and the flickering embers died.
After finishing his pipe, Old Cao slowly rose and habitually tapped the ash from the bowl against his sole. "I'm leaving tonight," he