The illusory figure of the green silhouette shuddered violently, scattering a vast swath of green fluorescent light.
His lips twitched, and his eye sockets grew moist.
A single utterance of "Dad" outweighed a thousand words.
He reached out a hand, cupped Xia Zhaoge's cheek, and his voice trembled slightly:
“Zhaoge, Zhaoge, snow departs south afar, songs and clouds leave only regret behind.”
“This is the scene when your mother and I parted ways all those years ago.”
Xia Yuan looked at Linglong, a single green tear rolling down from his eye.
Linglong had never hated him; even their daughter's name was given in remembrance of her.
Linglong turned her face away, her eye sockets flushing red, and said:
“If you have something to say, spit it out. You're about to vanish anyway.”