In ancient times, the cold stretched far and wide, while blue snow towered beneath the sky. The towering snow mountains lay in utter solitude. Here, it seemed one could touch the passage of time with one's fingertips. All around was desolation, an eternal, primeval sorrow. A melody played on a hujia flute dispersed the dreamlike splendor and confusion of Jinling City. Hundreds of thousands of heroic souls were left behind at the frontier beneath the cold moon, surrounded by sighs.
How many people live amid splendor, drunk and dreaming their lives away? And how many have ever seen the walls at the frontier, built from piles of bones?
The sword in his hand gleamed with a chill, and even he himself had no idea how many people it had killed. What was the Dao? What was the law? What was right? What was wrong? Perhaps the original conviction he had clung to had turned to ash from the very beginning, amid that web of treacherous schemes and calculations.
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
