Seven Killing Thunderbolts rise, one sword cleaves the boundless sky.
Laurel trees flourish for a hundred miles, while partridges cry through the cool noon shade.
At Yanping Ford, the peaks stand sharp as blades. The sword flies away, the river lies empty, and the waters flow on.
From the moment I first held a sword as a child, I knew I would become the foremost swordsman, the greatest in all the jianghu. What guidance do you have for me, honored masters?
