He sang in a low voice toward the setting sun. Half of his life was so miserable, and when he looked back, he felt lost. Where could the lonely figure express his heartfelt feelings?
He looked at the moonlight, covered with thick frost, leaning on his sword, and his heart was confused. The road he came from was gradually desolate, and it was hard to forget him when he became an immortal.
Two dynasties, several generations. How many things from the past have been left behind?
