Though Zheng Yimeng's fighting skills were poor, she was no fool—nor was she some idiotic heroine from a horror movie. Faced with danger, although she worried about Zhao Cheng, she still knew enough to run and avoid it.
As for Li Huang'er, she had grabbed one in each hand and hauled Wu Yiran and Qingqing, who had still been standing there stupidly, out of the way.
"Thanks..."
Wu Yiran said hoarsely, so frightened that she could barely force out a sound.
"Don't thank me. I just think you're too pitiful. My sympathy got the better of me."
Li Huang'er spoke pityingly, even patting Wu Yiran on the shoulder as she did so, leaving her utterly bewildered.
Yet in the span of their conversation, the battlefield had shifted more than fifty meters into the distance. Zhao Cheng advanced while the silver monster retreated, as though he had already gained the upper hand. Only Zhao Cheng knew that he was irrepressibly marching toward destruction. A closer look would reveal that his black hair had already turned snow-white.
Such power beyond the limit came at a price.
"Damn it, why don't I have luck like yours?"
Li Huang'er muttered as she watched the battlefield, sensing swordsmanship so breathtaking it seemed impossible.
She understood human nature fairly well. She knew that once certain things missed the right time and the right place, trying to achieve them later might prove impossible even with a thousand or a hundred times the effort.
The reason was simple. Many people never stopped moving forward, and the stronger they became, the harder it was for the beautiful things in the world to stir their hearts.
As for Zhao Cheng now, she felt that trying to win him over would be hell difficulty.
It was not that he had closed