Thirty years of Qingming Festival, one sword to block the spring breeze
The rain stops during the Qingming Festival, and the pines on the empty mountains are cold.
The thousand-acre pine forest in the back mountain of Guhongjian Sect is immersed in a thin wet mist. The larch pine needles on the ground are wet with morning dew. They are soft and silent when stepped on. Only the wind passes through the forest leaves, making a clear rustling sound that remains unchanged year after year, like the endless whisper of the deceased.
A full thirty years.
Su Yan, with white hair hanging down his shoulders, stood in front of the tombs. His plain clothes were stained with fine pine mud and slightly cool water vapor. He is already in his twilight years, and his temples are as frosty as snow, but his brows and eyes still retain the calmness and gentleness of his youth. Only the frost of his life has accumulated in his eyes.
Today, he led a group of juniors from the mountain gate to clean the tombstones of the ancestors of the past generations, so that every year is Qingming, and it is like this every year.
Since the death of master Lin Shen in seclusion and the end of the old chaos in Jianghu, the Guhong Sword Sect has been guarding this green mountain, not caring about worldly affairs, and hiding from the world of mortals. Thirty years have been enough to heal half of the old wounds in the world, and also enough to make the once bloody grievances gradually forgotten by the world.
The last junior brushed away the fallen leaves in front of the monument, bowed and saluted, and said softly: "Elder brother, the sweep is finished."
Su Yan nodded slightly and slowly scanned the entire pine forest. Tombstones stand quietly under the green pines. They are buried with old friends from the same family who fought bloody battles with the master. They are also buried with those old years full of blood and tears.
