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.,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.,The next second, the man's finger suddenly tapped on Ye Qingtang's brow. A golden ray quietly melted into Ye Qingtang's brow...。