She swirled the empty glass, leaving faint streaks of wine on the glass's surface.

Like thin, transparent threads, it swayed and slowly flowed down, finally gathering at the bottom of the cup, leaving only a small pool of amber-colored residue, reflecting the last bit of sunlight.

"After thinking it over, this place is the quietest—no one would come to the martyrs' cemetery to film celebrities drinking, right?"

I don't want to wake up tomorrow to see the trending topic "Female celebrity drowning her sorrows in alcohol late at night, suspected of being heartbroken" on my homepage.

The team also had to stay up all night writing press releases and dealing with a barrage of questions from reporters, leaving them barely able to leave the house.

As soon as she finished speaking, she tilted her head back and drank the last glass of wine in one swift and decisive motion.

His Adam's apple bobbed with a clean, deft motion, like a sword being sheathed, without spilling a single drop of wine on his clothes.

As I put down the glass, the back of my hand casually brushed against the corner of my mouth, leaving a faint red mark—I couldn't tell if it was the color of the wine stain or the fine line on the rim of the glass that hadn't been smoothed out.

It adds a touch of江湖 (jianghu, a term referring to the world of martial arts and chivalry), losing the carefully maintained sophistication on screen and gaining a more down-to-earth and unrestrained feel.

Her gaze as she looked at the tombstone suddenly darkened, like a pebble thrown into a calm lake. Her previous nonchalance vanished instantly, replaced by an emotion I couldn't decipher.

There was a deep-seated sense of relief, like the faint light shining through the clouds after the rain, weak yet real.

There is an unyielding longing, thicker than the scent of grass in the evening breeze, so strong that it feels astringent in the lungs, making even breathing slow down.

It was as if she was afraid of disturbing the person in the tombstone, or as if she was afraid of getting too emotional.

There were also tiny sparks of anger, like embers hidden in the ashes, ready to ignite at any moment, but she forcefully suppressed them, leaving only a fleeting chill in her eyes.

It's unclear whether she's angry at those who harmed Qianluo or at the injustice of fate.

That look in his eyes was so complex that it made my heart tighten. My fingertips unconsciously clenched the hem of my clothes, the fabric became wrinkled from being crumpled, and my fingertips rubbed until they were burning. Sweat broke out on my palms again.

Just as I was about to ask something to break the eerie silence, she suddenly stood up, patting her clothes with a carefree gesture as if she were brushing off a layer of dust.

The hem of my clothes swept across the grass, making a soft rustling sound, and even the grass seeds stuck to my trouser legs were brushed off, rolling a few times on the ground.

She reached out and pulled me up with incredible force; she practically lifted me off the ground by my arm. My wrist ached from her grip, and my bones ached slightly.

The blood in his fingertips felt like it was being squeezed, and he stumbled when his toes touched the ground, almost bumping into her.

Only now do I truly realize that her ability to kick the burly man away was not a special effect; that force contained real power, an explosive force honed over many years, and was not just for show.

If I had actually made a move, I probably wouldn't have even had a chance to get close, let alone press the alarm button in my pocket.

Her gaze never left the tombstone, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the folds in her clothes, the movements repetitive and mechanical.

It was as if she was relieving some kind of suppressed emotion, or as if she was checking the texture of the fabric to calm her mind.

Suddenly, she murmured softly, her voice as light as the wind rustling through leaves, as if she were deliberately softening her tone so as not to disturb the person in the tombstone.

It was as if he was speaking to Qianluo, and also to himself: "When you get there, you must live well, don't cause any more trouble, and don't always try to take the blame for others."

You're just too strong-willed; you always have to shoulder everything yourself, and you won't even utter a sound when you're in pain.

She paused, her Adam's apple bobbing, her voice as soft as a sigh, carrying a hint of melancholy and a barely perceptible sob.

Even the last syllable trembled slightly, as if the evening breeze had distorted its tone: "Don't try to be a hero again, only to end up dying young."

"Wait...wait for me to come over, so you won't be all alone again, with no one to talk to and no hot meal to eat."

With a "whoosh," the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a chill ran down my back.

It felt like a cold wind was seeping into my bones, making my fingertips numb and my breathing rapid.

Another untimely death? Will he have company in another world?

What does "all alone" mean? Could it be that Qianluo... also "went" there once before? And suffered there?

These words were like ice-cold awls, piercing my heart so hard that I could hardly breathe and my mind went blank.

Countless questions swirled in my mind, yet I couldn't find a way out; my heart pounded wildly, as if it were about to leap out of my chest.

My understanding of "another world" is the solace that the living offer to the deceased, a vague and ethereal thought, and a source of comfort when burning paper money during the Qingming Festival.

It's a form of self-comfort: "She's just living in a different place, and we'll meet again someday."

But when Xin Ziming said it, it carried an undeniable certainty, as if it were a real place.

There are streets and houses, people can eat and talk, feel joy, anger, sorrow and happiness, experience loneliness, and even wait for others to come and keep them company.

Qianluo's "untimely death" was not the first time; it was as if she had already experienced such a separation in some past I didn't know about.

One such "premature death", one such "alone and lonely", one such "no one to take care of", or more than once.

The evening breeze, carrying the sound of pine trees, swept past my ears, making them stiff with the chill of the mountain peaks.

Even the stray hairs on my forehead clung to my skin, feeling cool, but they couldn't extinguish the shock and confusion in my heart.

I looked at Xin Ziming's profile. Her features were particularly clear in the twilight, her jawline was taut and straight, and even her masseter muscles were slightly bulging.

My dear reader, there's more to this chapter! Please click the next page to continue reading—even more exciting content awaits!