Ling Han was just like her name, cold-hearted and cold-blooded.
When I was seven years old, blood stained the back alleys of brothels.
When I started training at the age of sixteen, my master said: "Ling Han, your blood is cold, don't trust the human heart."
Until Lin'an City ruined temple in the wind and snow, the little hand wrapped in a silver mink muff stubbornly stuffed a piece of hot chestnut cake into my frozen palm.
The moment the warmth exploded, Ling Han tasted tears that were more fishy and salty than blood.
It turned out that the pain in my frozen heart was actually more painful than being cut by a knife.
Purpose: Biography