The sun in Qingshi'ao was very poisonous. At noon, the slopes were exposed to white smoke. Even the cicada was too lazy to shout at the top of his voice. The only sound left was the "bang bang" sound of the ax in Ye Yan's hand hitting the wood, which was as dull as hitting the heart.
With a "click", the thick birch wood broke into two pieces. Ye Yan casually stacked the chopped firewood in the corner, his movements were crisp and neat, and the lines on his shoulders and back were so tough. This is not the solidity that comes from years of hard work in the mountains, but the vigor with a murderous spirit. Even if he is wearing a coarse cloth jacket that has been washed white, and his trousers are rolled up to his knees to expose his strong calves, he cannot hide the strong desire in his bones to avoid strangers.
