By the time he reached the northern battlefield, the mist of blood and death in the wind tangled his blade. He…
By the time he reached the northern battlefield, the mist of blood and death in the wind tangled his blade.
He has seen death: death from disaster, death in war... He just... he wasn't ready.
He only wanted to hear that last instruction: "Quick..."
Quick... what?
He could no longer hear; only the words from long ago echoed back:
You brat!
Oh? A new move? Come, show me!
The Northern Vow will march north soon. Is anyone willing to go to Plowing Hill to meet them? What, are you happy now, boy?
This is my son, Jiang Yan!
Quick..., the wind urged again. He swallowed the past and thrust his sword forward...
The blade he received just before the New Year, forged by a master at Wang Qing's request, a fine sword of cold, shimmering light.