The snow was still falling.
Inside the cave, Fang Yang had long lost his sanity.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his pupils were filled with blood vessels.
He tightly embraced Ye Qinghong into his arms.
Ye Qinghong, however, had hollow eyes, her usually cold and deep pupils were now devoid of any luster.
Like a beautifully crafted porcelain, exquisite and delicate.
And Fang Yang was about to shatter that porcelain.
The snow fell heavier, and in the cramped cave, master and disciple were embraced together, with Fang Yang on the verge of melding Ye Qinghong into his body.
Right at this moment...
A frail figure emerged from the wind and snow.
Her pretty face was pale, and her melon-seed-shaped face carried traces of worry, while her peach blossom eyes, seemingly filled with myriad spring blossoms, gazed sorrowfully at the scene inside the cave.
She coughed twice, the fresh blood at her lips shockingly vivid.
"Just as expected..."
