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"It seems I really have transmigrated—"
In a lavishly decorated carriage, Zong Shou expressionlessly gazed at a round mirror before him.
The image in the mirror clearly showed a boy not yet of age. At about thirteen, his complexion pale, but his features were rarely handsome and exquisitely beautiful.
A pair of narrow phoenix eyes sparkled brilliantly, yet, at this moment, they were filled with bitterness and helplessness.
He remembered that not long ago, he had a very ordinary face, the type that could not be picked out of a crowd.
