The porcelain shard in Zheng Baofan's hand plunged into his cheek, and he gripped it tightly, persistently slicing, blood pouring like a river.
Zhou Xuan observed his hand trembling in pain and kindly said, "Brother, if it hurts, take a break, I have time to wait."
"Can't rest, can't rest, if I pause for too long, I won't have the courage to cut my face again."
Yet Zheng Baofan stubbornly continued to slash his own face, and in a short time, the floor tiles of Jingyi Shop were speckled with bloodstains,
and through his efforts, his face was completely cut off.
Zhou Xuan moved his fingers, and a clean towel flew over from the washstand in the shop's west corner.
He grabbed the towel and handed it to Zheng Baofan, saying, "Brother, wipe your face."
"Thank you, thank you." Zheng Baofan, his face smeared with blood, took the towel, and the first thing he did was wipe clean the face skin he held.
