The pipa's strings break into a mournful tune, the Qiang flute chokes with sorrow, each note striking the heartstrings: long clouds veil the snow, passion and valor burn bright, ruined walls crumble to dust, and the moon over the passes seems so forlorn. The affairs of the world ebb and flow like the tide, gone only to return. Along the ancient road, I watch the green hills recede into the distance, draw my sword, and ask the heavens: when will the roads of the martial world open?
P.S. Pei Zheng only wanted to cure his stutter at first. He never expected to travel so far.
