Ye You, who was named by Ye Qingtang, frowned slightly, her eyes full of disdain. In her eyes, Ye Qingtang was nothing more than a struggling ant on the verge of death, not even worthy of her mercy.,The melodious, low voice was ripped apart by the raging wind. The man slowly crouched down, his long and handsome fingers reaching towards the gushing wound. wisps of breath constantly flowed from Ye Qingtang's wound, dotting the man's palm, condensing into a half-bright heart.,In the depths of his eyes, a hint of emerald green flashed. "So it is..."。