Bitingly cold.
This was Ling Shuang's first feeling after regaining consciousness.
It was as if the whole person had been immersed in a cold winter pool, and the blood was about to solidify. Then, a strong fishy-sweet smell rushed into her nose, smelling like rust, making her want to cough.
It's blood.
It was sticky and warm, wrapping her body.
Her eyes shot open.
What he saw before him was not the familiar family altar, nor the severe pain of cutting his heart to take the elixir, nor the twisted and proud faces of Xiao Chen and Ling Xueer.
This is a dark room. The window lattice was covered with old paper, letting in a little light. The air was filled with a faint smell of mustiness and inferior powder.
She struggled to sit up, but her hands and feet were limp and she couldn't use the strength. Lowering her head, she saw that she was lying on a hard wooden bed, covered with a thin quilt with several patches. The sheets had been soaked, and the dark red liquid was smeared like a flower of death blooming in the snow.
