Wen Yun once thought that there would be no more snow-treading swords in the world.
In the Spring and Autumn Period, in the past, the sword energy penetrated the clouds, but it was just a joke in the rivers and lakes.
Even if the old sword tassel sits alone at dawn, I don't want to touch the coolness of the hilt again.
Until the cold snow in Nanshan, at the end of the cliff, Shen Ciyu stood in front of her.
In front of her was a former classmate, a brother-in-law, but he was pointing a sword at her heart.
Behind him is an abyss.
Shen Ciyu turned around, held her cold hand, and put a long sword into her palm.
The long sword was unsheathed, its blade reflecting the light of snow and humming like a dragon's roar.
"Wen Yun," his voice was very soft, but it was heard above the wind and snow, "Someone has taken away your apprenticeship, stained your reputation, and broken your pride." He took her hand and pressed the hilt of the sword inch by inch into her curled fingers, "But this sword recognizes you."
"Jianghu owes you," he looked into her eyes and said word by word.
"If you ask with your sword, you should pay with your blood."
Intention: Mountains and rivers are scrolls, and all living beings are writing brushes. Wherever the ink falls, there is a spring and autumn of its own.