"Brother, don't be afraid, I will take you home."
Xiao Yu pressed the sword on his waist and looked back at the hut in the bamboo forest that had been on fire for a long time. The scorched smell in the distance was full of cruelty and blood, which overshadowed the taste of grief. The wounds and blood stains between his eyebrows made him unable to raise his eyelids. He felt that the smoke was burning in front of him, making his eyes red.
Don't let him cry.
Xiao Yu is ten years old, and he has countless experiences of moving and escaping with his parents in his memory. Sword training and migration, these two elements alternately constitute all his memories of childhood. His mind was gradually blurring, and in the haze there was only this round and white face in front of him, with a magical and soft halo of light, trying to cover up all the sad scenes for him.