In the twelfth lunar month of his seventieth year, the steward brought him a message: You are seventy. By the rules, it's time for you to retire.
The contract said nothing about a pension. Once he stepped out through the Lu family's gate, he would have no land or home. If he spent a winter night curled up at the foot of the city wall, he'd freeze solid. He had three days to leave.
He had tended horses at the foot of an immortal sect for fifty-two years. The people on the mountain flew on swords and lived for hundreds of years, yet not once had they looked his way. All he had to show for seventy years of saving was a tobacco pipe, a fire striker, and a small pouch of tobacco.
So when the words "Lifespan: Three years" appeared before his eyes, his first reaction wasn't delight. His heart sank.
The last flicker of life. He had personally buried two old companions who had passed just like that.
Only after the lamp went out did he see wisps of white rising from the fodder basket in the corner.
It was spiritual energy. The immortal masters on the mountain used it to tell good spirit plants from bad ones and judge the quality of spirit ore. Ordinary people could only smell, taste, and guess. But he could see it.
Those who seek immortality all begin in their youth. He had only three years, was seventy years old, and had a body that was about to fall apart.
And yet, for that very reason, no one would ever be wary of an old horse keeper who was seventy and nearly in his grave.
If you meet someone with the right taste, you will definitely like it
It's my type🤔