The evening sky remained clear.
In a split second, having returned to the bookstore, Fu Qian sat back in his luxurious chair, observing the view outside the window.
The weather was pleasant, but unfortunately, only a sliver of the sunset's afterglow remained.
The good news was that despite only a sliver of afterglow remaining, there was no sign that tomorrow's sun wouldn't rise.
Although the number thirteen is indeed somewhat unlucky in theory.
With a sigh, Fu Qian touched the empty cup before him and took a kettle from the side to pour himself some more.
There was still some warmth left; although Gan Baobao's craftsmanship might have been lacking, the quality of the tea itself was excellent.
Before entering the warehouse, he had given a bit of advice on this side.
He particularly emphasized that although there may be too much unfairness between Transcendents and ordinary people, in the face of true death, fear is the same.
