The wind and sand are blowing slightly in the ruins of Jiuli, and the young man in white is carrying a thousand kilograms of swords on his shoulders and his back is straight. The Taoist in Tsing Yi stood opposite, his gaze like a hook scratching across the sword. Without a word of reply, the Taoist leaned against the solitary peak more than ten feet away, and the boulders fell like an avalanche. He carried the sword mountain and turned around to leave, crushing the earth with every step but refusing to break a single weed. The young man in white stared at the direction in which he disappeared, looking down at the ground beneath his feet which was as flat as a mirror. This man was telling me that the Word is at my feet.
