But Sang Yan still discerned her meaning.
She naturally didn't believe it, she simply thought she was shirking responsibility—how could she have killed someone and not know?
"How is He Ying doing?"
Sang Ruoshui inquired about He Ying's condition in a jumbled rush: he's alright, isn't he? He must be fine, right?
It was as if she was consoling herself, muttering: he's the strongest. He'll be okay.
As she muttered, she crawled to her knees, clasped her hands together, and spoke words praying for his safety.
It was like watching a play.
Sang Yan, furious, slapped her across the face.
"Smack!"
The slap was hard.
It sent a shock of pain through her own hand.
Sang Ruoshui was hit so hard that she toppled to one side, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Her body was truly weak, once she fell to the ground, she couldn't get up again.
"Hahaha, dead, dead—"
She seemed to have been provoked, laughing loudly almost to the point of madness.
