The Xuantian of Glacier is not stained with dust, and the north gate of the Temple of Ten Thousand Years is numbered. The wild grass is deep enough for a horse to ride, and Langya's fierce bow will kill people.
The white hair is giving way to the black hair, and the new soul is chasing away the old soul. The reeds rustle and sing in the old fortress, and the vast sea of blood feasts on the gods.