War

Flap, flap.

A bird leaped from a slanted branch, flapping its wings and departing without a backward glance.

This was an unnamed green mountain, standing exceptionally silent amidst the biting cold wind.

Both birds and beasts were hushed, and one could faintly hear the sound of surging water.

It should not be far from the eight-hundred-mile expanse of the mighty Qing River.

On a hillside, amidst the overgrown weeds, a figure lay curled up, motionless.

This was a youth who had lost consciousness, yet his face remained frozen in an expression of agony.

He was curled up like an infant, stripped of all protection. Yet, even in this state of unconscious stupor, his muscles remained taut, as if he were still fighting in his dreams. His left hand held a half-formed seal, and his right hand gripped a sword tightly. He was as rigid as a sculpture.

Black mist drifted in and out of his body, and strange black patterns were spreading from his neck across his face. Those black patterns resembled twisting little worms; at a glance, they seemed to be wriggling. It was a terrifying sight.

The gentleness and resolve that once appeared on this face were all gone, replaced by a sense of evil. It was as if he harbored hatred for everything in the world, and even in his agony, he was brewing some sinister plot.

The black mist was deep and agile, rising and falling as it engulfed the youth.

On the unconscious youth, only three places had not yet been completely eroded by the darkness.

One was his forehead, where his tightly locked brows seemed to be infused with a certain firm will, like two majestic passes, firmly blocking the advance of the black patterns and guarding his spirit.

One was his right hand