To save his wife, the immortal lord sacrificed a hundred years of cultivation. But when his white moonlight returned, he set up a life-span ledger, deducting ten years for not letting her enter the main courtyard, and twenty years for slamming the teacup. With hair turning white overnight, her heart died to ashes. At the birthday banquet, he took away her last twenty years of life-span to light a life-protecting lamp, saying coldly, 'All lives are given by me, what qualification do you have to resent?' At the hour of Zi, the life-span marks completely dissipated. She did not cry or make a fuss, her soul following her mother back to the deep mountains. When the immortal lord pushed open the side courtyard door, the bed was already cold, and the tips of the shoes empty by a section. The full hall of flutes and songs was still ongoing, and the wife he thought of day and night had already become a clump of withered bones. Late deep affection is cheaper than grass.