Thousands of dust, the crescent moon, yin and yang meet each other. The lamp is not a lamp, the candle is not a candle, the two ghosts of impermanence are holding on to life. However, looking at Jiutian at the end of the bridge, there were two lines of tears falling in the air. The morning and evening hang, the right of life and death, Yan Ming is in love with the world. Dreaming about butterflies, weaving red threads, the soul is so distraught that it goes to hell. The jade dew is gone, only the red tears and glass are dancing. Demon Lord? ! You innocent little brat?! If you like it, just say so! ! Seven-year-old little King of Hell? ! Don't be fooled by his appearance, he is hundreds of years old. A red letter, let's go and kill ghosts with my young master. What? What should I do if the kid is hungry? My arms are open to you. . .