Shuofeng Asks Snow

Withered willows cross falling snow. Someone offered fifty taels for Wen Tingshuo's finger. He had been mending shoes for thirteen years, and what he was waiting for was not his life, but three thousand nameless people in the heavy snow in Yanmen. The gun was not fully melted, the waist tag was charred black, and the date of death was engraved on the wooden tag. He grasped the gun in the shoulder pole, went to Xue, and asked her name.