That child, amidst this bitter winter, wore only a thin, long garment. Originally pure white, the shirt was now stained crimson by endless streams of water.,No one would care, Ye Qingtang, whether she lived or died.,He was a handsome, breathtaking man, his white clothes fluttering in the wind. He stood motionless by Ye Qingtang's body, gazing at the gaping hole that had been ripped open, the faint breath slowly dissipating from the wound.。