The Sword Questions the Rise and Fall

The rain was bitterly cold. Cold as if someone had pressed an invisible knife against a person's face. The ruined temple stood at the foot of the mountain, its door half ajar. The paint had long since peeled away, exposing gray-white wood grain like a dead man's face.

Shen Zhaoye walked in just then.

He had neither an umbrella nor a bamboo hat. His black clothes were soaked through and clung to his body, outlining his lean yet upright figure. His face was very pale, with a sickly cast to it, but his eyes were bright.

It was a brightness that refused to go out, even on a rainy night.

In his left hand he carried an old wine flask. His right rested on his sword.

The sword was black.

Its scabbard was black, its hilt was black, and even the cloth wrapped around the hilt was black.

No one knew the name of this sword. Shen Zhaoye himself had never given it one.

A sword didn't need a name.

When it killed, it recognized only blood.

When Shen Zhaoye entered the ruined temple, the first thing he smelled was blood.