End of January.
Fan Wubing turned sixteen, and according to the consensus of most people in this world, he had come of age.
Most things the second time around are far less enchanting, less haunting than the first.
This was his second coming of age, so he felt nothing special in his heart.
However, as a "young man," Fan Wubing felt he still had a bit of sentimentality. So, he celebrated his birthday alone, with no one to accompany him, by having a bowl of plain noodles.
In the abandoned mountain temple, with every crackle of the firewood, a burst of sparks shot out, flaring up high before swiftly extinguishing.
Fan Wubing sat by the firewood, slurping his noodles.
This was merely an ordinary bowl of plain noodles, not an immortal's meal. However, to him, the nature of the food didn't matter. It was just about the ritual. If a birthday was celebrated like any other day, it would seem rather dull.
