The wind at the top of Kunlun is angular, and the wind blowing on your face is like the unpolished black iron from the back mountain of Qingya Sect. When Song Weiyang stood on the edge of the cliff, the corners of his clothes were blown loudly, and a few stars of snow foam stuck to the ends of his hair were brushed off by him before they had time to melt. The image of Madam Liu standing at the gate of the academy with her child in her arms was still very clear. The child was holding half a piece of sweet-scented osmanthus cake and looking at him with round eyes. It reminded him of those paper figures that could run out of the space between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law ten years ago.
