After the snow, the winter sky was desolate and distant, a vast expanse of tile blue.
Feng Yun wasn't quite clear about when she had fallen asleep the night before; when she woke up in a daze, her body felt like it had been pounded by a rice-hulling pestle, from her collarbone down, spreading a swath of enchanting marks, sore and aching...
She sighed.
Pei Jue had said last night, "How is it that you're born so delicate..."
In his heart, she was always fragile.
But that didn't mean he spared her—overwhelming like harvesting ripe peaches, the riper they were, the more he insisted on biting through to let the juice seep out...
Feng Yun felt quite wronged.
In fact, he was wrong; it wasn't that she was incompetent, but rather that her opponent was too valiant.
With someone like Pei Jue, even two Feng Yuns probably wouldn't be enough...
Feng Yun pushed open the window.
The weather was delightful, and the birds chirped merrily through the thin morning mist.