She was even less significant in Tang Xian's mind than the people he had already forgotten, but Tang Xian understood—he absolutely couldn't forget Qi Yuan.
Six hundred and seventy days had passed, and everywhere he looked, the world resembled an endless, boundless night.
During those muddled four days, Tang Xian seemed to hear the laughter of a baby.
That laughter carried notes of mockery and ridicule.
Tang Xian could no longer summon any courage, because today, he had written down Yan Xiaoling's name.
Santa Claus's gift had been destroyed by his own hands. Before writing down the name, he had been in unbearable pain. But the moment Yan Xiaoling's name became unfamiliar, Tang Xian suddenly felt that many things no longer mattered.
Why should he save this world?
What had it ever given him?
The anguish and confusion gradually faded from his face, replaced by an expression twisted and grim.
Three people still remained in his memory.
Zhong Yao, Li Xiaoyu, Qi Yuan.
