Gao Huating lifted her left hand to cover her mouth and nose.
It was only an instinctive motion.
Her right hand still pressed on that notebook, staring at the words on its pages—sometimes messy, sometimes tidy.
Calling it a diary wasn’t quite right, since it wasn’t written every day.
It should be called a record of years—an annual ledger where Wang Jixuan poured out his feelings from time to time.
Gao Huating could only be thankful now—thankful that Peony chose to stay with her teacher.
Otherwise, trapped in that dark, cramped space where even turning over was difficult, to endure seven or eight thousand years before returning to the mortal world...
Even if one could seal oneself and meditate to temporarily forget their plight, that strange sense of displacement would never fully leave.
Even Gao Huating, enduring just a few decades of similar conditions, was nearly at her limit;
But the notebook she was reading recorded Wang Jixuan’s lucid state during the one thousand six hundred and twentieth year he spent in that coffin.
He was still optimistic;
Peony still kept talking to him.
And the biggest wish in the diary was that, without breaking the barrier around the coffin, he could figure out how to sit up and stretch his body.