He appears no older than his early twenties, born with a lean frame and crane-like bones, with sword-like eyebrows and starry eyes, hands clasped behind his waist, as if he could swallow the universe, his eight-foot-tall stature reaching the heavens, clad in a white robe like an exile from heaven.
This person...
This person!!
Wen Ting's face turned pale then shifted colors repeatedly.
Rubbing his eyes, he still couldn't accept the appearance of this figure before him.
Suddenly, as if taken ill, he bent forward then quickly shifted his upper body left and right twice, straightened up, his head pecking around like a woodpecker, and finally clutching his chest, thrusting his breath into his chest cavity, his voice stopping the clouds:
"Ah ah ah~my wife~"
This was a breakdown so severe that no amount of random singing could contain the shock in his heart.
"Shut up."
The expression of the figure in the white robe darkened.
