The Red Blood on the Black Iron Blade

The morning mist in Qingfeng Mountain always smells like old sugar. Ten years ago, Shen Yanzhi and I were squatting in front of the sugar painting stall at the foot of the mountain. He clutched the last bunch of candied haws and insisted on giving me the sweetest hawthorn. The sugar residue stuck to the tip of his nose. I laughed so hard that I fell down on the stone steps, even the master's sword practice whistle was ignored. That day he secretly stuffed half a piece of warm osmanthus cake into my pocket. He said "Shuang'er, I will protect you from now on"; ten years later, in the fog of the martial arts arena, the tips of our swords touched each other, the cold light of the black iron sword reflected the hesitation in his eyes, the black iron token in my right sleeve made my forearm ache, Cang Ye's gloomy voice was still in my ears: "Lin Shuang, Shen Yanzhi is the root of Qingfeng Mountain. Only by destroying him can the revenge of your parents be avenged." The wind and fog were moving, but my eyes were glued to the peace charm under the hilt of his sword. It was an item I had knitted with red rope for three nights for my fifteenth birthday. There was a dried osmanthus hidden in the knot, which was the "love token" he insisted on asking for away. The half jade pendant attached to my left chest was snatched from my mother's body when the family was exterminated. The word "Lin" engraved on it coincided with the handwriting in Cang Ye's secret letter. My fingertips touched the coldness of the token, and then I remembered the warmth of the peace charm. I suddenly realized that this blood-soaked revenge script might have been wrong from the beginning.