Ying Jing, in a deep slumber, dreamt of her past life.
She dreamt of the day she died.
Heavy snow had fallen for several consecutive days, engulfing the world in an endless sorrow.
Wen Fucheng held her body in the snow for an entire day.
Both of them were covered with thick snow.
Frozen to the point of losing sensation, with dry faces and cracked lips.
The monks could not separate them.
The Abbott talked to him for a long, long time.
Unfortunately, not even Buddha could save him; his Buddha had extinguished.
When Wen Yue found Yingshan, Wen Fucheng was almost at his limit, and Weiyi knelt on the ground, crying over and over again.
No one could pry their tightly held hands apart.
In the end, they had no choice but to administer medication to Wen Fucheng.
He was supposed to be a proud and spirited figure.
But at the moment they were separated, he cried like a child.
The voice that hadn't spoken for days sounded like it had rolled over a blade again and again.
