The sword looked charming under the moonlight, the sword light fell, the two were destined to be together, but after all they could not talk to each other.
Many years later, on the same snowy night, under the same moonlight, what question about life and death, unchanging sincerity, looking back in horror, standing there blankly, unable to return, without a trace, with the sound of mountains and drums, pressing into my heart?
In the end, there are trees in the mountains and the country is in mourning, but the soul has returned, but is it still half as stubborn as before, never looking back, grinding its teeth and sucking blood, killing people like hemp, one man in charge, and ten thousand people can't stop it?
In the end, if the sword is with you, but if the sword dies, you will die.
There are trees in the mountains, the country is in mourning, and the souls have returned to look at the rivers and mountains.