"Wujin..." Ling Qingshuang's voice was hoarse as if it had been rubbed by sandpaper. She tried her best to smile and handed over the Nine Cold Grass in her hand, "I... I got it."
She expected to see any hint of concern in him, even just a moment of relief.
However, Ye Wujin slowly turned around and when his eyes fell on her, there was no distress or concern, only a bottomless indifference. His eyes swept over her pale face, across her lips that were purple from the cold, and finally settled on the Nine Cold Grass in her hand.
"Why are you here?" He spoke, his voice as flat as a taut string, without any emotion, "It's half an hour late."
For a moment.
Ling Qingshuang felt that all her strength had been drained by these words.
The Nine Cold Grass in her hand almost fell to the ground. Late... Late? She narrowly escaped death and risked her life to collect something. In his eyes, it was just a "late" judgment?
