Xie Wen took the order, his figure flickering, instantly vanishing into the night.
The wind of late spring swept across the Bozhou wasteland with the smell of gunpowder, Shi Feiyang stood on the scorched earth, his dark attire stained with drying blood.
As he turned to look deep into the dense forest, a waning moon peeked out from the clouds, its cold light flowing over the dilapidated little house like frost or snow. A few strands of withered wisteria drooped from the slanted eaves, the battered window lattice moaning in the wind, like sighs drifting from the depths of time.
Memories surged like tidal waves over his heart's dam, sweeping him into a whirlpool of the past. Once, this small house was a haven of warmth for him and Guo Xiangyu.
