Near the burial mound where Dragon Snake had once revealed their true form and fought.
Heaven remained drought-stricken. It had been many years. What had once been fertile fields had become desolate wasteland seldom touched by human feet. Perhaps one could walk all day before encountering a few refugees fleeing the ravages of war. They scratched a living from the soil, barely hanging on to life, but at least there was no exploitation.
A weathered old farmer with one arm labored at his farmwork, carefully tending the young shoots.
His expression was intent, as though he were caring for his own flesh and blood. With his remaining arm, he swung his farming tools, bent and hunched as he worked. What he scattered across the fields—was it sweat, or tears...
The blazing sun scorched overhead. Puncturevine covered the roads, and the wind whipped up dust. The old man squatted on the field ridge, gazing at the seedlings and sighing.
The tattered cotton coat on him resembled a treasure in the hands of an antique connoisseur, burnished with a thick patina. It was not that he did not want to wash it; he truly could not bear to waste the water.
"Still don't understand it... sigh..."
He had pondered it for many years, yet he could never understand what Dragon Snake's final words had meant.
His two brothers had died at Dragon Snake's hands. Later, the Great Tang had vanished like smoke into thin air. Over the years, the one-armed man had asked many people, but no one could give him an answer. Lost and bewildered, he returned to this place to think quietly. He was no longer a fierce general of the imperial court, no longer a powerful cultivator. His hair had become disheveled, his face unwashed, and his hands were