"Is Wei Zhengdao still alive?"
Li Zhuiyuan felt a twinge of disappointment if Wei Zhengdao was not dead.
From what he had seen of those who had transcended the limits of human lifespan, they all became neither human nor ghost.
The figure in the Wanjiang Underground Palace, Yuxuzi from Zhengmen Village, and now the one speaking to him—were all the same.
The youth admired Wei Zhengdao's books for their unique style.
He was a character full of narcissism, a rebel who reveled in the edges of taboo.
Li Zhuiyuan would never admit to idolizing him but could not deny his appreciation for the man's work.
He wanted to dig deeper into his story and uncover the traces of his life.
But he didn’t want to see him alive, living a lowly, dirty, and twisted life.
The perfect Wei Zhengdao should be dead, a normal death.
This sentiment mirrored that of the disciples from the Xue, Zheng, and Zeng families toward their master, Yuxuzi, who sacrificed himself to seal away demons; that was the revered figure in their hearts.
It said: "I don't know..."
"You don’t know if he’s still alive, yet you want me to kill him?"
"Isn't it enough that I’m still alive?"
"But your existence doesn't guarantee his."
"What if...?"
"Don't you think your 'what if' sounds ridiculous?"
"You've really grown bold to talk to me like this..."