The sun rose, and its warm rays shone down.
Zhao Rong caught the precious sword that Qiu Mengyin lightly tossed to him; as the scabbard touched his palm, a chill spread through it.
The gap between hilt and scabbard was but three parts, revealing the gleaming white blade. Sunlight poured over it, making the blade's light suddenly brilliant and crystal clear, which dazzled Zhao Rong's eyes, his gaze as deep as two pools of lush green, like waves beside a lake, merging into one body of Autumn Water.
The sun rose over the east mountain, verdant and lush, the sky filled with boundless white Autumn Water.
"What a sword! What a sword!"
Zhao, delighted, exclaimed as he drew the sword from its sheath amid the crisp sound of flowing water.
His spirit soaring, he leapt onto a larger boulder and brandished the sword.
