The young girl seemed to have suffered a tremendous grievance, with her head buried in the frail man's embrace, unwilling to lift it.
And the person who caused her such grievances was himself.
Lu Ziyuan's heart, numbed from pain, stubbornly sent signals of pain to his brain. His lips moved slightly, but he said nothing.
The autumn night was chilly as two men confronted each other from afar. Apart from the whistling wind, not a single person among the many guards and personal soldiers in the courtyard dared to speak, even their breathing instinctively lightened.
For a long time, noticing the person in his arms trembling slightly, Pei Yuqing withdrew his gaze, loosened his arms around the girl, took off his cloak, wrapped her in it, and then held her in his embrace again.
This series of actions gradually turned Lu Ziyuan's face dark, his bones creaking from the tight grasp, as he gritted his teeth and watched.
