An elegant hand extended towards the pheasant, and gently rubbed its head. The pheasant was slightly unhappy, but it did not dare to show any signs of unhappiness. It extended its neck in a clever and sincere manner, and allowed the hand to rub it. It seemed just like a quail.
It was Xu Yourong’s hand—the pheasant knew very well what kind of blood flowed in the girl’s body. It disliked it very much; it had to admit that the blood was its bane.
