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.,No one would care, Ye Qingtang, whether she lived or died.,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.。