Lin Zhu woke up under the roots of a tree when the Yangtze River was flooded. The back of his head was so painful that he gritted his teeth and his body had just swallowed his breath. The reflection on the water was so white that it reflected light and he reached out to poke his cheek. Cold sweat broke out and I touched my waistband and gasped for breath - this face was so long that I wanted to touch it myself, but I was so handsome these days and was afraid of being dragged to comb my hair and arrange flowers. The stunning beauty system dings and goes online to the group chat and automatically pulls people in. The peach-blossom chef calls out to the daughter of the overlord who takes photos of her and gives her pig lung soup. I am typing erratically through the forest and bamboo leaves, and the girl from the same city replies in seconds, oh, the same city. The river was still rising near my feet, so I squatted down and wrung out my soaked cuffs: first find out what I could exchange for this chat group, and then figure out how to get out of the river alive.
