The setting sun falls over the city, and the wind and sand are like crazy in the desolate desert. The desolation that has lasted for thousands of years is reflected in the sky, like a deep sigh from ancient times, lifeless.
In such a vast picture, he was the only one squatting alone on a huge rock.
He was wiping the knife, the Lone Moon Scimitar that had accompanied him to drink countless blood. I walked against the wind and walked to his side, "Go back and rest early." As soon as the movement of his hand stopped, the blade, as thin as an ice wing, shone brightly under the remaining light of the setting sun. He turned his head, his messy long hair flying with pride as sharp as a blade, his bare chest shining with a strong wheat-colored light, his thick and narrow eyebrows, and his deep black eyes, lingering with a strangely rational and calm loneliness.
I lowered my head, not daring to look into his eyes. His eyes... Were heartbreakingly strong and extremely calm and cruel.
Conception: