The falling snow makes no sound, spreading over the vermilion-lacquered gate of the Green Bamboo Courtyard, sealing the moss in front of the steps into a shimmering white. The copper bell at the corner of the eaves was bent by the weight of snow, and occasionally made a dull jingle, like a frozen sigh. Wen Qingying held the sword and rubbed the mottled rust on the sword with his fingertips. A cold feeling crawled up his fingertips, intertwined with the dull chill in his meridians.
Concept: Two male protagonists.