Blood Stained Ink Abyss

Martial ArtsAncient StyleOverhead When the snow fell, the knife was still in the sheath. The scabbard is old and the knife is even older. There was a very fine line on the blade. It wasn't rust, it was left there by someone - maybe it was blood, maybe it was something else. Snow knows, Dao knows, that person is gone. The knife had been buried in the snow for many years. The snow falls layer by layer, pressing it into the mud, into the cracks of the rocks, and into the depths of all forgetfulness. It is waiting, not for the snow to melt, but for a hand. Here he comes. Xu Nanhua. Going north from Shu, I took nothing with me except a knife. When I reached out and pulled the knife out of the mud, the snow was white, the knife was black, and the lines on the blade were red. When the three colors are put together, a story begins. Later, Xue followed him. Falling on his shoulders, falling in every footprint he walked. The knife was on his back and blood was in his body. The white one is the sky, the black one is the iron, and the red one is the hot things. Someone offered him a lot of money. Someone risked his life to protect him. Someone traveled thousands of miles to settle an old score. The red streak on the knife dimmed for a moment under the moonlight, then lit up again. Not afraid, but waiting. He's still walking. Snow is still falling. The back is white, and the front is also white. He stood in the middle, carrying a black knife on his back and a red lipstick burning on his body. The snow wants to bury the black, and the black wants to cut through the white. Only the wisp of red stays there, neither increasing nor decreasing. It's like a sentence that has been said for more than fifty years and has not yet been finished, but finally waits for someone who is willing to finish it.