Ji Fusheng died that summer, enjoying the freedom of floating like a broken kite, accompanied by the noisy cicadas and the scorching sun...
The moment he fell, the wind hit his cheek, and he thought of the decadent and incompetent half of his life, as well as the unspoken truth.
Now with these regrets and the pleasure of revenge, he splashed a bright red blood flower on the ground...
In a daze, Ji Fusheng heard a sharp alarm that was familiar yet unfamiliar, and he was no longer unconscious.
The author has not saved the manuscript. I am writing as I think about it.
The first cloud: The cowardly true young master who was bullied at school (ongoing)
Purpose: Travel through three thousand worlds and taste all kinds of life
