This is a legend about a long river. It is so long that no matter the dynasty, let alone the age. If the world could be as simple as an endless river, then people would be like floating ducks in the river who don’t know where they are going.

There are all kinds of tastes. Whether it is turbid waves or clear and quiet, you can never predict its sudden change. Isn't every soul beside the river wandering?

An ordinary small town along the river. The river has long been covered with ice and snow, and the land is so white that it is hard to tell the east, west, and north. Even though it is on the south bank of the long river, it is still extremely cold this winter. The wind is biting, and every shop has closed early.

It's late, and scattered lights shine through the window paper on the snow-paved street, making the street look empty. Even if there are people who want to do business in this weather, there may not be any customers.

Only the crumbling window of the blacksmith shop still breathed out bits of warm white air with difficulty. Anyone passing by would always find a rickety figure sitting behind the window that was so worn that people wanted to dismantle it.

If you look through the dark window, you will see a blacksmith with white hair and a smoky face curled up playing with his beloved tools. His hands, as dry as bark, are full of deep vertical and horizontal lines. No one knows where he comes from, family

No one talked to him anywhere. People guessed that he told the lukewarm stove everything he wanted to say. The old people born in the small town only knew that there was a deserted shop here when they were born.

, no matter how prosperous and busy other blacksmith shops are, only this one never has many people visiting it.

The old blacksmith glanced out from the crack of the window and vaguely saw a shaky figure walking slowly along the wall from the corner of the street. What a strange person! He was wearing a thin black robe and a jacket.

The black cloak with several patches was blown randomly by the wind. The patched cloth bag was slanted on the shoulder. There was a long sword hidden under the cloak. This man was as old and skinny as the sword in his hand. He looked like a man walking on the street.

As if he was about to be blown away by the wind, his face had already turned purple from the cold. Snowflakes kept hitting his robe and face, making him covered in ice. His long and messy hair was fluttering in the wind, and he was not wearing any hair.

The well-groomed beard only made people feel dirty. His black hair was really stained with frost, making him look dozens of years older in an instant. He knocked on the doors of three inns in succession, and a lazy reply came through the crack in the door:

"It's closed, all the rooms here are full!" His clothes that were not clean enough made people stay away from him. So he stopped at the door of the blacksmith shop.

"Hey, come in."

He was stunned for a moment and said reluctantly: "I... don't have any coins on me..."

"It doesn't matter, let's keep you company."

He then dusted off the snow on his body, moved into the house, and placed it beside the door.

The old man led him to the stove, brought him a bench, sat him down, and brought him a bowl of hot water, "Warm yourself up. You haven't eaten yet. I have a few left here."

A white steamed bun is enough to satisfy your hunger."

He raised his eyes, confused.

"Who doesn't have a problem when they are away from home? Take it." As he said this, the old man gave him the bowl and brought a plate of white steamed buns from the back room.

He put the bowl of water aside and went straight to the pile of steamed buns that were as hard as rocks. He wolfed down one of them in two gulps. In the end, he felt a little embarrassed. He raised his head and raised the corners of his mouth as a smile.

He slowed down. After eating, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve to wipe away the debris and spit out: "Is there any wine?"

The old man smiled and held the bowl towards the corner, where two wine jars were lying. He stood up in a hurry, grabbed the wine jar before the old man, tore off the seal and poured it into his mouth, leaving the old man stunned.

In the blink of an eye, not a drop of the two bottles of wine was left. After drinking, he sat back on the bench as if nothing happened, "Is there any more?"

The old man was confused: he had simply lured a wolf into the door. "A charlatan?"

He lowered his head and was silent for a long time, as if he didn't hear the old man's words. Only the crackling sound of firewood could be heard in the room. Time seemed to have stopped, and he was like a statue beside the bench. It was a very boring moment, so boring

Lie Yan also turned pale, reflecting his bloodless face - his pale and pale eyes were full of indifference, and the tight corners of his mouth made people feel that this man was as serious as an iron plate and could not be pried. Others could not guess who he was.

Whether he is sad or happy, it seems that all the waves in the world have nothing to do with him.

The old man smiled: "He is just living his life with his head high, so why bother getting involved in the world?" Seeing that he was speechless, he quickly added, "It doesn't matter, people always have troubles. There is no obstacle that cannot be overcome." He stared at this.

Human sword: The bronze sword shell has a hint of age. A section of the sword's hilt is exposed, and the cloth wrapped around the hilt is oily and worn. It looks like it has been used for many years.

The stranger's eyes suddenly shone with light, seductively sharp, his eyebrows were like swords, slanted into the temples, coupled with the high cheekbones and sharp chin like a knife, the fierce light was fully revealed. He took off his helmet.

Sword, gently stroking the sword shell, "This guy has been with me for a long time." His voice was so low that he seemed to have never considered whether others needed to hear it, and his eyes slowly revealed a bit of desolation. The old man clearly felt that there was an invisible wall.

Blocking him from everything around him. Why should he seal himself off? He put his hand on the hilt of the sword and withdrew a piece of it. The frightening cold air was more pressing than the heavy snow outside, and the fire reflected the bloody light.

The same sinister color. But the eyes gradually became gray and hollow. Finally, they closed their eyes tightly and raised their heads silently.

The old blacksmith's smile was frozen on his face by the light of the sword. He had seen more weapons than people in his life, but no sword had ever made him take a few steps back. No one knew that he was once a famous figure in the world.

The Dragon Ming Sword in the hands of Chu Tao, the swordsmith and leader of the Zhuyu Sword Sect on the South Bank, and the Tyrant Sword of Qin Xiao, the leader of the Tianyi Sword Sect of the North Bank's number one martial arts family, are all his proud works.

"Good sword, good sword!"

The old man couldn't help but slowly get closer, and looked at it repeatedly in the dim light: the diamond-shaped cross section; the sharp blade suddenly expanded in the middle, slightly like a cross star; the two thin blood grooves on the front and back of the sword snaked.

It extends like a cross and intersects in the middle of the sword body; a black but scorching luster wraps it, like the body of the visitor. Its material is top-notch in terms of hardness and toughness. However, when you get close to the sword

At the base of the body, a crack-like trace was cut diagonally, and the edge of the sword was slightly rolled up. The black luster converged here and became dim. It was like a wound that would never heal, reminding the world of a sad past.

The old man shook his head and sighed: "Unfortunately, this sword cannot escape the fate of being easy to break... The sharper the weapon, the more tragic its fate."

"Who doesn't get hurt? It knows its own past. I only use it to kill people." These words he threw out seemed to have echoes lingering in the air. His eyes were gloomy, looking at the sword, and it seemed that

I have never seen this sword before. "The hilt of the sword is loose, please tighten it."

"Just stay a little longer." A "ding-ding-dong-dong" sound immediately sounded on the desk. The old man didn't want to know what this overly thin and gloomy man would do with this sharp weapon. He had long been accustomed to indifference, just like facing

For every employer who came and left in a hurry, all he had to do was help these people complete a weapon. The handle of the sword was really easy to deal with, and when it was finished, the old man glanced at the scars on the sword and felt sorry for it.

The swordsman took the sword and waved it gently a few times, and the room immediately shone with a strange light. He nodded: "I will pay for the food and wages, and wait." The voice was still in the shop with the crackling of firewood.

The sound echoed, and the man had disappeared without a trace. A line of increasingly distant footprints in the snow confirmed that he had been there.

Soon, a child sent an envelope, which contained only a one-hundred-tael banknote. There was no message. The old man immediately chased him out. The street was bustling with people and was extremely lively. It turned out that it was a group of extremely vicious horse thieves who had been caught by the law.

, people in the town rushed to tell each other. That day, the locker in the government treasury was opened, and an unknown sharp weapon split the padlock in two. Many of the belongings were there, except for the reward of one hundred taels of silver.

The moment the door was opened, a note fell in the wind, saying: The horse thief was caught, take it for yourself. When the officers and soldiers chased the horse thief's lair, they found the stolen property neatly piled inside. The seven leaders were tied up tightly one by one.

Throwing them aside in the bushes, each person had a wooden sign hanging on his chest, writing his crime, and their leader was dead and missing. No one knew who did it, and the horse thieves only confessed in unison.

There is a man in black, and as for his figure and appearance, there are thousands of contradictory theories.

"Have you ever seen a ronin? He has a weird sword and is dressed in black." The old man asked when he met someone. I don't know how many people walked out of the blacksmith shop shaking their heads. There was a flash of surprise and helplessness in their eyes.

Terrified, but no one wanted to put it into words.

The days passed by like a storm, year after year, so long that the old man had forgotten about the ronin, almost forgotten about the stove, and the stories he had told over and over again by the stove. But late one night, the black figure reappeared:

The same chilling aura and the same shabby clothes. Only the temples that had turned white at some point reminded the old man that time had flown by. The broken sword evoked the old man's memories: "Are you still here to repair the hilt?"

"No." His eyes were still sharp and decisive, "Please repair it as before." The words were as clear as hammer sounds.

The old man with silver silk like snow stretched out his trembling hands and smiled: "It's impossible, unless the time goes back twenty years ago."

He took a step back in shock, as if waking up from a dream, and then a pale gloom appeared in his eyes, just like the sky when the old man saw him for the first time: "Twenty years ago? That's right, no one can go back...

…”

"It's getting dark, would you like to come inside and have a drink?"

He suddenly smiled bitterly: "It's been dark all the time, and I haven't drank for many years. Thank you." The old man stood in surprise, wondering what kind of mark these twenty years had left on his heart. The gloom in his eyes

Gradually, a faint sadness spread, and then he turned around and left. His black robe flew up for a moment, taking away his traces as if they were disappearing into the night, passing by like the wind, elusive.

One month later, in the morning, the old man found the broken sword at the foot of the blacksmith shop. It was still stained with heavy blood. There was a blood-stained silk handkerchief tied to the hilt. The old man took off the silk handkerchief and read four words:

The crooked words written in blood: "A long river sinks into sand."

He was so frightened that he walked through the streets, hoping to find the person who delivered the sword. However, there was not even a human figure on the cold streets, only the cold wind whistling. With a helpless sigh, the old man threw the sword into the hot water.

The stove, let the fire consume everything.
Chapter completed!