That child, amidst this bitter winter, wore only a thin, long garment. Originally pure white, the shirt was now stained crimson by endless streams of water.,At that moment, a golden light shot down from the sky and struck Ye Qingtang who was falling.,The melodious, low voice was ripped apart by the raging wind. The man slowly crouched down, his long and handsome fingers reaching towards the gushing wound. wisps of breath constantly flowed from Ye Qingtang's wound, dotting the man's palm, condensing into a half-bright heart.。