In September, Hokuriku has long been frozen, and the ice and snow are desolate. I sat on a black horse, letting my honey-colored skin stand in the biting cold wind, and my clothes flying around. The Blood Feather Bow was silent behind me, but its gorgeous bloodthirsty nature bloomed quietly among the numerous and strange patterns. He stretched his bow and nocked an arrow, and an eagle fell down as far as he could see. After struggling feebly, all the strength finally ran out, leaving only a few drops of blood to pay tribute to the vast snow. This is my Hokuriku, deep and desolate but hiding the tension of killing.