This book is a slow-warming martial arts novel with realistic ink and wash. It is about an ordinary person - not a hero, not a genius, just a young man who has a dream of being in the world.
Shen Jinghong left home at the age of eighteen, thinking that the world was filled with poetry, wine, swordsmanship, and that heroes were fighting with swords across the world. He met the singing girl, the retired veteran, the grass in the village, and the soldiers at the border. He lost his sword in Yangzhou, lost his soul in Huanzhou, and was drowned in the blood of Hongde City. Comrades died one by one in front of their eyes, with scars on their bodies one after another.
There are no adventures from heaven, no secrets, no grudges and grudges. There are only muddy official roads, cracked wounds, and half-burned family letters. The world of Jianghu is not what he thought. Boss Meng is right - Jianghu is the mud under your feet, the blood on your body, and the home you can't go back to the moment you step out of the house. It's not that the clothes are as white as snow, it's that of a gray cotton-padded jacket; it's not that a sword seals one's throat, it's that a blunt knife cuts the flesh; it's not that one is successful and famous, it's that one has walked far, far away, and then turns around and realizes that he can't go back.
This is a slow-burning novel, like an ink painting, one stroke at a time, one stroke at a time. When you finish reading it, you may find that the young man's dream of rivers and lakes was shattered on the ground, but it was shattered into ashes, scattered in the wind, and scattered on the road from which he can never go back.
