Ji Jue sneezed again.
He looked up in confusion at the screen. The room temperature was twenty-four degrees; he didn't feel cold, nor was it hot. "Isis, am I catching a cold?"
"Sir, are you in your right mind?"
The Spirit of Creation retorted coldly amidst its busyness: "A Chosen One of Transcend Rank, catching a cold? How do these two concepts even connect?
I wasn't aware you had such profound literary talent."
"It's so strange these past two days, I keep sneezing. Is someone talking about me?"
"Is it possible—" The Spirit of Creation's voice grew even colder, "that this is the resentment of some pathetic slave whose workload keeps increasing?"
"Impossible!"
Ji Jue waved his hand decisively, waiting for Isis to ask, but she didn't, shutting Ji Jue down: "I don't want to know why."
Ji Jue chuckled suddenly, unconcerned: "Because hasn't your workload been like this since long ago?"
"That's why I said, I don't want to know."
