Hanjiang·snow

About This Novel

The wind is blowing, the snow is falling, and the land is vast. The cold river is frozen, twisting and turning, and winding away. The sky and the earth seem to be the same color as ice and snow, and there is boundless desolation in the desolation and loneliness. The dead branches of the old trees stretched diagonally toward the sky, swaying and dancing wildly in the cold wind, as if the unwilling souls trapped in purgatory opened their withered ghost hands and screamed at the sky in miserable and terrifying despair, adding unspeakable melancholy and a hint of ghostly coldness out of thin air. A small patch of sparse winter plums surrounds a row of low thatched huts in twos and threes. The plum blossoms are all over the trees and the fragrance floats in the space, free and easy. The rapid sound of hoofbeats came from afar, and the iron hoofs passed by, breaking the ice and kicking up the scattered snow. Immediately, a man in purple clothes, young and handsome, with a shawl, fluttering in the wind.

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