"Writer, I want to spit blood."
Listening to what Ye Xuan was saying, Jian Wushuang almost spat out old blood.
What does it mean to...
Not practice the upper sword but practice the lower sword.
Not practice the golden sword but practice the silver sword.
Really sorry.
When I was a child, the family was too rich, drank too much Sanlu milk powder.
Couldn't comprehend, lower sword, silver sword, these high-level terms.
"Director, can you swap in a normal person to act with me?"
Jian Wushuang cried out in his heart.
Please!
He's here to deliver a challenge.
Yet Ye Xuan just drops a sentence without thinking, describing him with the wretched look of someone who's worn out.
May I ask one thing.
"What does 'worn out' mean?"
Can any male writer come out and explain, or come out and perform it in real time?
Jian Wushuang's mind was a mess.
His venomous gaze, deep as a viper's, icy cold, locked onto Ye Xuan's body.
