"If there is an afterlife, I just hope we never meet again."
However, God rarely fulfills people's wishes.
When Liu Huo saw that man, it was raining slightly in the south of the Yangtze River.
A green oil-paper umbrella, the bamboo handle slowly stretches up to the pale and thin knuckles, making people want to grope all the way over and hold it in the palm of their hand.
"It seems familiar," Liu Hui said without hesitation.
Feeling someone approaching, my lonely eyes are still focused on the sparkling lake in front of me.
"Sir, can you see this Yanghong River?"
The Six Disasters were startled. How could this peaceful Liudi Xizi be in such a bloody state?
Looking back, Mo Qing's pupils were bottomless, and an unfathomable smile appeared on his rare pale sick face, "Maybe I'm confused."
Why can't the Nagawa water wash away his memory? Why can't we see the bloody disaster of the past everywhere in the world, but - we can see him again.