For Yin Baishuang's sword, she didn't even evade or resist, nor struggle, nor brandish her sword to defend.
The sword tip pierced her chest without any hindrance, blossoming into a mournful red flower amidst the snow-white garment.
Yin Baishuang's strength was immense, forcing her to stagger back several steps.
Su Jing staggered, leaving trails of bright red as blood pearls scattered over the snow, yet she seemed indifferent to the pain.
Her entire body felt as if it were numbed by the wind and snow; her white and thin dress fluttered lightly in the wind.
Her face was as pale as paper, from the corners of her tightly pressed lips, warm, red blood slowly seeped out.
Until she steadied herself, the long dark hair veiling her frail shoulders belatedly felt the piercing chill of pain.
Su Jing, trembling frost-covered eyelashes, feebly raised her hand, attempting to grasp the fleeting crimson line in the wind.
