Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, falling upon Tie Shu's temples and clothes, yet they could not truly touch him. With extremely soft swishes, they were sliced into countless pieces, countless small flowers blooming in the air.
This man seemed to be made of iron, even colder than the wind and snow. Hidden under his clothes was a sharpness more frightening than even blades or spears.
Wang Po walked to the table, glanced at him, and then sat down, serenely placing his blade on the table.
His movements were very steady and light. They made no noise, as silent as the falling snowflakes.
Snowflakes also fell on his temples, then rolled off or lightly stuck. They also fell on his blade, gradually covering it like fallen yellowed leaves, revealing not even a hint of sharpness.
At this sight, Tie Shu's indifferent expression slowly began to change. He was not growing more wary or solemn, but sorrowful.
