Fang Yang's body stiffened, and he adjusted his robe without any expression, very naturally.
Gong Yajun's clothes were in disarray, that semi-transparent, thin-as-cicada-wing garment hanging off her shoulders.
Her eyebrows were like fine willows, and her lips were like cherry blossoms.
Still kneeling on the ground, her rounded buttocks sketched out a heart-stopping curve.
Thud thud!
Thud thud!
Sounds of gentle knocking rose from outside the courtyard.
Like rain on banana leaves, it was faint but delicate, very much fitting Hua Lianyue's personality.
Fang Yang frowned, pondering why his own disciple had come to seek him out in the dead of night.
Meanwhile, Gong Yajun lay prostrate before Fang Yang's knees, sitting on a jade mat with her red lips slightly parted, her gaze filled with plaintive allure.
On her face, flushed with the rosy hues of sundown and bearing the mark of years, it seemed as if the sea itself were aflame.
