The so-called decent sect is just a Rakshasa wearing the mask of Sakyamuni. The expression on his face is always compassionate, but he is empty despite all kinds of suffering.
The living dead have no pain. Even through the bruised heart and the kiss that penetrated deep into the bone marrow, I could no longer feel the pain. There is only the suffocation of death.
Look at the Qingren city once, and then look at the Qingren country.
Many years later, when Ye Jiachen thought of the first time they met, the smile she showed him was as bright as yesterday, and an indescribable pain surged up in his heart like a needle pricking it.
"Who are you?"
"Dark Dark Hall, Night Shura, Ye Jianing. Fallen leaves, Canaan incense Jia, peaceful Ning."
The story is not long, nor is it difficult to tell. To make a long story short, love cannot be achieved.