Lu Zhou was like a glass ornament fallen into a thousand years of misty history. With maxed-out cultivation condensed into a star chart in his palm, he leaped from the rift of a life spent roaming the mortal world into the folds of history. He wielded his blade like a brush, its edge white as snow, his body drifting like a cloud. His blade concealed autumn waters, yet his steps seemed to tread through spring. To him, the jianghu was no more than a glass cup held in his palm, filled with the warmth of everyday life and friends met by chance. With the air of someone who had “cheated,” he moved beyond the reach of flashing blades, turning an assassin's coldness into wine to share beneath the moon with strangers. The years flowed through his fingers like a river, yet he remained the light boat upon its surface, carrying no fog of mystery, only fresh breezes and smiles.
