There is a male protagonist, a slow-burning emotional line, a passionate cultivator, and a small group portrait.
I have a sword and ask Cang Ming, why is the world divided into turbid and pure?
The demon's pupils reflect the moon for thousands of years, and the bones bear frost and ice for thousands of years.
He once walked on the stars to pick up the Big Dipper, and also cut down the long whale in the wind and rain.
Today I am lying drunk on the top of Kunlun, smiling at the floating clouds passing over Jade Capital.
The red heart has not changed the color of the mountains and rivers, and the iron pen still writes the names of the sun and the moon.
If the blue sky opens the eyes of wisdom, I will not teach the world how to use weapons.
