At the peak of fame and success, all that remained was bone-deep cold. He wrote a poem for his own death, then leapt into the bottomless abyss.
When he opened his eyes again, cicadas pierced the years, and the scent of green grass filled his lungs. He was back on the hillside of his youth. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the moonlight of a lost past quietly resting beneath that plum tree.
The grains of fate's shattered sand gathered once more in his palm. In this life, even the mightiest power will fall to dust, and his sharp sword will lower only for her. He swears to burn away the loneliness of the past and shield this bright, clear light he has regained with his own flesh and blood.
