Seeing Qiao Ran motionless, Wen Shimo, trembling, extended his hand toward her nose and, feeling her steady breathing, knew there was no danger to her life before he could somewhat relax.
"I'm sorry, you're hurt again!"
Wen Shimo, looking at Qiao Ran's obviously poisoned cyanotic lips, was filled with deep guilt and self-reproach.
Despite the severe pain that made Wen Shimo nearly lose consciousness several times, he pinched the philtrum forcefully to prevent himself from fainting, until Zhou Yu hurried over with people.
"President Wen, how did you get so severely injured? How could those assassins be so powerful?" Zhou Yu looked at Wen Shimo's pale face, the philtrum bleeding from being pinched, his face muddy and disheveled, and asked with a trembling voice, full of distress.
"Shimo, you and Qiao Ran are both skilled, to be so badly injured; who was it that struck so viciously?" Cheng Zhiyuan asked with concern and a sense of being scared after the fact.