The cold wind rustled through the withered yellow grass on the hillside, where only a few remaining bushes were covered with a layer of brownish-yellow old skin, devoid of any hint of green.
The world was vast and cold, and the wind howled as another heavy snowstorm seemed imminent.
Long Weiyi stood alone at the summit, and if someone had approached her at that moment, they would have found her murmuring to the air with a strange expression.
Her long hair fluttered messily in the wind, which lent her a somewhat desolate and lonely aura against the ashen sky.
Her expression was slightly dazed as she slowly extended her right hand to touch half of her own cheek. Her movements were gentle and cautious, as if she was not touching her own skin but some precious treasure instead.
Her expression was too solemn, too devout. Isolated in the sea of consciousness, Heqing watched "herself" caress her face, feeling an eerie sensation well up inside her, indescribable in its meaning.
