Time, little by little, the sun is buried in the West Mountain, the moon rises quietly, and the faint moonlight falls on the open ground, reflecting a trace of brightness, but it never illuminates the heart of the ink book.

Fifty years, with the flick of his fingers, fifty years, he buried himself in cultivation, so he could forget these annoying things...

Chapter 363 of "Against the Sky and the Sealing God" I said, I have a clear conscience I am hitting in my hand, please wait for a while,

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