It's not just the figure, from forehead to brows, from mouth and nose to shoulder and neck, repeatedly examined dozens of times, yet not a single flaw can be seen, every inch of sight descending, every part appearing so exquisite.
Even if you sought Mu Yuejuan, the first painter in Puluo State—Hundred Flowers Fine Painting, let her paint for a decade, she wouldn't be able to capture such a beauty.
Song Shu was entranced, while the woman carefully examined Song Shu: "Young lady, you look weary, your face dusty, have you encountered some wrongdoers?"
"No, no." Song Shu's cheeks reddened, she bowed her head, trapped in the wormhole for so long, knowing she must look terrible, disheveled and dirty, even somewhat shabby.
The woman said: "My home is nearby, come wash up at my place, eat something, drink a bowl of hot soup, and have a good night's sleep."
"This..."
How could this be possible?
