This is not a novel about a hero saving the world.
It tells how four flesh-and-blood mortals were dragged into the abyss by fate, and then struggled to stand up from the abyss; how three generations of an organization knew they were bound to die, but still spent hundreds of years calmly and methodically preparing for their own funerals; and how a woman, carrying a thousand years of memories, walked alone in the peaceful age, waiting for the next snowstorm.
There are no artifacts in the book that can destroy heaven and earth, and there are no shortcuts. There are only flesh and blood, swords, formations, and something stronger than these - human will.
Everyone in Siji Pavilion has never seen the prosperous times in their lives. They died in darkness and were buried in obscurity. Their stories have been tampered with, forgotten, and their graves have no inscriptions.
But what they were guarding was never a monster.
It is the world that I once believed in, a world worth living with tears and death with a smile.
And the world will eventually forget them, just like forgetting every snow.
But the snow melts into water and the water seeps into the soil.
New flowers will bloom in the soil.
[This book is dedicated to all the nameless people who, in nameless places in the annals of history, used their bones and blood to redefine the order of the world.
Intention: understanding of life, cherishing love
