Itâs not surprising that Ms. Luo would think this way. In the minds of ordinary people, seeing the Emperor in person is a rare honor for generations of a family. And now, not only can they be in the same hall with so many members of the imperial family, but the coffin can also be buried in the royal mausoleum. This is not sorrow, but an honor that ordinary people can never reach.
Yang Xiaochuan thought even more so, feeling a bit envious of his daughter. He wanted a son so much just to have someone to see him off when he passed away. He worked so hard to earn silver just to have a decent coffin when he died, hoping that his funeral affairs would be handled with dignity.
But now, the decency he wanted doesnât even compare to a single pillar in the solemn imperial temple.
Sigh, Yang Xiaochuan was envious, truly envious.
If Yang Chuxia knew what he was thinking, she might be so angry sheâd want to open his head to see whatâs inside, wondering why a living person would envy a dead one so much.
"We probably cannot come here again, right?" Ms. Luo asked.
"Nonsense, this place looks hard to enter. How many times do you expect to come? We donât even know how we got in this time." Yang Xiaochuan rebuked her with a couple of sentences.
He thought to himself again, once he gets back to Yangshu Village, heâd have something to boast about.
Whose daughter can still be so impressive after dying?
Who has ever been to the imperial temple?
Yang Chuxia, upon hearing this, said no more, naturally stepping into the front hall to pay her respects while passing by.
As they were leaving, a master in a gray robe emerged from the left side of the grand hall, his silhouette appearing somewhat frail.
"Thatâs our Master Sikong! He just arrived last month," the little novice beside them said.
"Master Sikong?" Yang Chuxia was momentarily stunned. The imperial temple isnât a place any monk can enter; everyone who enters has a record.
The master who arrived last month must be the Grand Emperor.
Sikong, Sikong, the name is rather ironic, for what he desires all ends up being empty.
Perhaps sensing Yang Chuxiaâs gaze, Master Sikong turned to look back when he reached a corner. Just one glance, and Yang Chuxia felt that the old man didnât have much time left.
His gaze was as deep as an unfathomable dry well, his face so parched it nearly made her think a mummy plague had spread into the imperial temple.
Moreover, the color of his lips, black and purple, was a clear sign of poisoning. Whoever could poison him in the imperial temple, whoever wanted him dead, Yang Chuxia didnât want to speculate.
"Xiaxia, is that man really a master? Can we ask him to tell your cousinâs fortune?"
Before Yang Chuxia could speak, the little novice next to them snickered softly. He just arrived last month, and youâre asking him for a fortune?
"The master probably needs to meditate. Letâs not disturb him, letâs go." Yang Chuxia didnât elaborate, just led the two down the mountain, where Ming Lan and the others were waiting at the foot. They boarded the carriage, and the wheels began to roll.
Suddenly, shouts came from behind, "Benefactor, wait a moment, Benefactor, wait a moment!"
"Stop!"
Yang Chuxia got off the carriage and found it was the little novice.
"May I ask what business you have, young monk?"
"My master cast a divination for the lady benefactor. Here is the document!"
The little novice handed a small roll of paper to Yang Chuxia.
"Amitabha, this humble monk takes his leave!"
Yang Chuxia was somewhat puzzled. A divination for her? The best fortune teller in this imperial temple had already gone wandering, who else could it be? Could it still be Sikong?
Once aboard the carriage, she unrolled the paper, realizing it was indeed him.
It was just unexpected that he dared to. Wasnât he afraid sheâd hand over the paper?