Snowflakes drifted down in a swirling flurry, as though the clouds themselves were collapsing.
On the northwestern side of Eternal Sacred Winter Peak stood an enormous sheer cliff. It was not naturally formed, but carved by human hands.
The person hovering before the cliff was merely a point amid the vast wind and snow, easy to overlook.
Yet that snow-dragon robe made his presence impossible to ignore.
With his hands behind his back, he gazed up at the high cliff, where line after line of words had been carved.
The strokes were keen and biting, like swift blades cold with frost. They read—
Ah, alas! Four thousand years of frozen snow in the northwest—what does it drift like?
Like wings that cannot fly across ten thousand miles of land, like frost-birds halted upon the long river of years!
Beyond Hangu Pass, a book-bearing scholar, his burning blood poured into his writing.
Within Tianjing City, a wandering swordsman, mocked as a brat and made to bear a long blade.
I saw the Frost Maiden sing of white jade, but never saw old fools ask after green pottery!
All know snow and moon are fragile things; one mirror reflects all ages past and present.
How many heroes have there been?
Like beauties, they too are never seen to grow old!
"How do you have the leisure to come here?" Fu Huan arrived through the wind and snow, barefoot and lightly dressed. Appearing at his side, he glanced at the inscription on the cliff and smiled. "And you're still reading this."
Hong Junyan did not turn around. Still looking at the cliff carving, he praised, "Frost feathers take flight as snow; the bright moon serves as a mirror reflecting past and present. Fine scenery. Fine lines."
Back then, after Hong Junyan's Dao