Too Weak

Too long It has been so long that the human world has long forgotten the image of fear, Together in the distance of the long river of time, There was a group of people who used blood and bones as knives to wipe the corpse clan from the earth. After that battle, the Corpse Tribe became a story told by storytellers, a few yellowed lines in a pile of old papers. Seven hundred years are enough for rust to creep onto the blade and turn allies against each other. The major forces of the human race are fighting each other on the remaining territory, and the swords are more dense than when they faced the zombie clan. No one mentioned that word again: fear. He is the most inconspicuous person in this era. He has no origin, no talent, and no one takes a second look at him. He originally thought that he would be like a speck of dust, living silently and dying silently. But sometimes dust is swept up by storms. An accident came without warning. He was pushed into a crack—underneath the crack lay a darkness that no one had dared to touch for seven hundred years. The zombie clan has never been destroyed, they just sleep underground, like the pus and blood under old wounds that have not yet drained away, like the bones at the bottom of history that refuse to rot. Behind him is the abyss, and in front of him is the endless night. No one taught him how to draw the sword, and no one told him why it was him. But darkness doesn't wait until someone is ready to come again. He took hold of the sword. Not for the world, not for leaving a name in history, not even for living - just because someone has to crack open that false shell and let the world see what it has become. Under the Taixu, the wind and clouds surged. Who rules the ups and downs? --