Yun Zhao squatted in the backyard of Yaolu, his fingertips stained with blood, and was setting the bones of a broken leg of a spiritual rabbit.
The mountain wind carried bits of snow into her collar. She shrank her neck and suddenly heard a very low groan coming from outside the wall.
"Who?" She clenched the silver needle in her hand.
There was no answer, only the smell of blood getting thicker and thicker.
She hesitated for three breaths before pushing open the creaking wooden door——
There was a man curled up in the corner. His black clothes were soaked in blood. Half of his face was covered by long hair, and his exposed jawline was as cold as a knife.
