On the night of leaving the soul, the old sword was buried in the snow. The snow fell like catkins, stirring up the cold night. The surrounding fields were silent, except for the sobs of Yu Shuofeng, passing by the dead branches like soul-breaking cries. I took out the old sword sleeping in the iron box and slowly stepped into the depths of the vast wilderness.
The spine of the sword reflects the dim light of the waning moon, and I still remember how many cold stars it once swayed through the clouds and the frost on the blade amazed many cold stars; now the blade is still sharp, but it cannot penetrate the cold snow that fills the sky and penetrates the heart. Under the land covered with thick snow, I buried the past with my own hands. The moment the sword body entered the earth, the ice and earth swallowed up the edge silently, and the snow flakes flew up and buried the old box like a coffin - the soul of the sword always lives in the frozen soil of the netherworld.
This sword has cut through many obstacles, and wherever its sharp edge points, it is the awe-inspiring clarity of the sky and the earth; now it is buried on a windy and snowy night, not because of rust, but because the soul it once illuminated has also been silenced forever by the cold front. The sword cut through the deep snow, but the clanking iron bones finally turned into the moon of the three-foot cold pool, shining silently in the boundless night snow.
