The north wind is like a rusty blunt knife, blowing against the cold skin of the Qinhuai River, rolling up the withered yellow sycamore leaves, spinning on the bluestone road, making a hoarse whimper. The last bit of blood-red blood in the setting sun struggled to squeeze out from the peaks at the western foot of Purple Mountain, dyeing the thin ice condensed on the Xuanwu Lake red. It also smeared on the layered roofs of the ancient city of Jinling, showing a decadent and extravagant tone. The air was filled with cold, damp mist, mixed with the choking smoke of burning coal, the greasy aroma of street food stalls, and a deeper, more invisible depression—the aura unique to power centers, a mixture of ambition, fear, and uncertainty.
Reader comments
The description is more delicate, and the historical background is explained more clearly. But the writing is a little too mysterious and the authenticity is average.
The description is more delicate, and the historical background is explained more clearly. But the writing is a little too mysterious and the authenticity is average.