"Has he returned, truly has he returned?" the elder murmured dreamily, his brows deeply furrowed in a frown.
"See if Qian Ji has awakened?" asked the elder.
"Not yet." In the empty great hall, an emotionless response echoed abruptly.
"Go and check. It's been half a year; he should have awakened by now," the elder said, his voice deep and furred. "If he has awoken, have him see me immediately."
"Yes."
Fen Qianji lay on the cold stone bed, his eyes firmly shut.
How long had he slept? He wasn't quite sure; it felt like just a moment, yet also like a thousand, ten thousand years.
He seemed to have had a dream, where a bizarre patchwork of broken images flashed chaotically through his mind, so jumbled that he couldn't make heads or tails of them.
That's what dreams are like.
