A gentle breeze whispers through the verdant forest, its origin unknown and its destination a mystery. Just like the fleeting intersection between a person and a group, you cannot understand their past, nor know where they will vanish, leaving only faint traces indicating that something once happened.
Teng Xiaoyun lies there silently; if not for careful examination, it seems as though she were merely napping, except the pallor of her face speaks of a life already departed.
Two days and nights pass in the blink of an eye, and Zuo Feng remains kneeling by Teng Xiaoyun's side, seemingly tireless, his eyes vacant and staring blankly. The two streaks of blood at the corners of his eyes bear witness to the blood tears he once shed.
At this moment, he resembles a wooden sculpture, as if a soulless shell from which his own life might slip away at any moment. In Zuo Feng's current state, he is utterly defenseless; even a tiny beast could easily kill him.
