This is a kind of pain that even trembles the soul, a kind of sadness that cannot be contained with all the strength of the whole body. It is like a taut string suddenly broken. The things that were resisting and disobeying with all their strength suddenly disappeared, leaving only deep loss and endless emptiness. Qiao Han stood in the charred ruins, staring closely at the blue sky. The blue sky and white clouds were pure and beautiful.
The breeze blew gently, and it seemed that the choking smell of gunpowder smoke could still be vaguely smelled. The sea of golden rapeseed flowers in the distance kept rising and falling, and the sound of the wind seemed to be a sigh. Qiao Han's expression was indifferent and empty, and his pupils had lost their previous sparkle, not even a trace of light. His delicate face was as cold and numb as a sculpture, and his tough lines seemed to have been cut by a sword, as if he was in extreme pain, but not a single tear gushed out or even a trace of choke escaped from his throat. He just stood there, his back straighter than before, his head still held high proudly, his whole person was silent and silent, as if he had lost the breath of life. He stood in such a lonely and painful posture, like a sword that was left alone in the world, but had lost its dazzling light.
He stood like this, as if he wanted to stand for a long, long time, until the end of the earth and the sky...