On the high-rise glazed eaves, a pair of eyes are shining, and the ink hair pours down from the shoulders, falling on the green shirt like scattered splashes of ink, like a dream.
The next glance this month is something I will never forget.
He blinked, looked at the wreckage at my feet and said, "You destroyed my lotus!"
There was a trace of blood between the eyebrows.
That is the mark of the Fallen Immortal. He is a god, but he has become a demon.