Early spring in the Central Plains, the chill remains piercing, as if the remnants of winter still firmly linger, unwilling to easily retreat.
The cold wind, like a knife, whistles through the streets and alleys of Luoyang City, causing the trees by the roadside to tremble and the bare branches to collide with each other, producing creaking sounds, as if playing a tragic song for this chilling atmosphere.
The sky is as somber as a heavy lead plate, pressing low over the city, seemingly ready to collapse at any moment. The snow on the streets has yet to completely melt, scattered unevenly, emitting a biting chill under the dim sky, making people shiver involuntarily.
