As they planted, a peach blossom drifted inside.
"Alii, I'm going in for a moment."
Alii nodded, continuing to focus on the seedlings in front of her.
Li Zhiyuan put down the shovel, reached out to catch two petals, and rubbed them together, the moisture in the petals was unusually abundant, equivalent to washing his hands.
Then, the young man walked into the peach forest.
There were no obstacles, the path was smooth, and soon, Li Zhiyuan heard that soul-wrenching scream.
The body was exhausted, the voice as slight as a mosquito, but the wailing from the soul whipped him, growing ever clearer.
He came to the edge of a small pond and saw Zhao Yi, who had been hung there and beaten beyond recognition.
Mr. Zhao surely didn't expect such a warm reception on his first day back in Nantong.
Qing'an was painting, and Li Zhiyuan stood beside him.
It was a landscape painting, in an impressionistic style; before it was finished, it appeared chaotic.
