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.,Ye Qingtang stood straight, her bare feet on the soft snow. Her soaked feet melted into the snow, and she tilted her head. Suddenly, she raised her sword, its jeweled tip pointed directly at the man in fine clothes surrounded by a crowd of people.,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.。