The setting sun is like blood, staining the ruins of Yanmen Pass.
Shen Qinghan was leaning against the ruined beacon tower, holding a half-broken sword. Blood beads dripped down the peak of the sword, and dark flowers bloomed on the dry ground. She raised her eyes to look at the sky, where the geese were forming a row, their calls were shrill and shrill, as if they were marking the end of a tragic fight.
"Commander Shen, you and I have been fighting for three days, but in the end, you are inferior in skill."
A cold voice sounded behind him, with a somewhat careless smile. Shen Qinghan turned around suddenly and saw that the man was dressed in black attire, with black hair tied high, and a sword on his waist that shimmered with cold light. He was none other than the Evil God of the North, Yan Li.
Yan Li approached slowly, the soles of his boots making a tiny crunching sound as they crunched against the gravel on the ground. He looked at Shen Qinghan's pale face, but there was no murderous intent in his eyes. Instead, there was a hint of unnoticeable regret: "It's a pity that the number one swordsman in Daliang has ended up in this situation."
Shen Qinghan coughed up a mouthful of blood, and the corner of his lips curled up with a trace of mockery: "Yan Li, you and I have different positions. Either you will die today or I will die. There is no need to be hypocritical."
Yan Li chuckled, leaned over, and gently brushed Shen Qinghan's blood-stained brow with his fingertips: "But I don't want you to die."
Intention: It is the friendship of confidants and two-way running that transcends camp positions. Amidst the conflicts between the rivers and lakes and the conflict between the country and the country, we must stick to the sincerity and fetters of our true hearts.