Yang Jian's health continued to deteriorate, relying on life-taking soup to squeeze what little life potential remained in his body, just so his final days would not be spent collapsed in bed, but with enough clarity of mind to prepare for what came after.
The price? His remaining lifespan would be cut in half.
More than once, Yang Xiusheng wanted to persuade Yang Jian not to be so relentless, but Yang Jian's thoughts were simple: better to blaze brightly than to linger in misery!
He was the emperor—how could he willingly die on a sickbed?
So even at night, Yang Jian rested little. He always claimed the time spent soaking in the warm soup was "rest," but once he left the warm soup, that was his "final time."
"Uncle, if there truly is a next life, I think I might be a fish, even a loach would do."
Yang Jian was grateful he wasn't as lonely as his father in his final days—at least he had Uncle Yang Xiusheng by his side.
"A next life? Perhaps there is, perhaps there is not."
