He Youran pulled the violin bow, and a beautiful melody slowly flowed out.
Unlike Tang Yiqing's magnificent atmosphere, her melody was gentle and graceful, dispelling the murderous aura just now.
In a trance, everyone seemed to be able to see the white-clothed saint stepping barefoot on the blood-stained ground.
He looked at the devastated battlefield with pity. The dead soldiers, the broken war flags, the broken carriage shafts... The bright red blood was like an endless flag, stretching to an endless distance.
The saint closed his eyes and wept. The tears of pity fell into the red soil.
Suddenly, the scorched land reappeared with a new green that represented life. The color of life spread from the saint's feet. Green grass, fresh flowers, flowing water…
A silver waterfall rushed down from the broken mountain top. The rushing water washed away the debris on the ground…
Everything was revived
