Murmurs rippled through the crowd, each voice filled with disbelief and surprise.
Nearly simultaneously, Wu Tao and about twenty students turned their heads.
Lin Shiran also looked toward the direction of the roses.
Immediately, two figures emerged clearly in everyone's eyes.
The one in the back, a man with fine features who, while not handsome, exuded an air of dignity. It was he who held the bucket, the one who doused the candles.
Chen Yifan!
And in front of Chen Yifan, a casually dressed young man. A white t-shirt, white shorts, long legs stepped forward, each stride crushing the red roses beneath his feet, the beautiful petals scattered in disarray.
His expression was indifferent, his gaze without a ripple, hands in his pockets, utterly unconcerned with his surroundings.
"Lin Hao?"
They were all in the same grade, the same school, and most people knew each other. The Lin Hao who was famously inept in both literature and martial arts, how could Wu Tao not know him?
