"Seventy-three years old..."
Murphy murmured as he gazed at Mo Ling's delicate little face.
In his past life, there was a saying: at fifty, one knows the will of heaven.
But from what he'd seen, in the era of his past life, many people didn't necessarily "know the will of heaven" even when they reached fifty, or even seventy.
Even at seventy, they were still in their prime, still striving.
Or to be more precise, they still had expectations for the future, even if those expectations were born from their own anxieties.
Later, he came to understand.
It wasn't that one couldn't know the will of heaven at fifty. Rather, only after experiencing life and death, after crossing the threshold of one's expected lifespan, could one truly understand what "the will of heaven" meant.
For such people, every extra day of life was a gift from the heavens, so they could be open-minded about everything, their state of mind tranquil and serene.
