This year, the winter in the capital was much colder than it had been in the past. It was still early winter, but the surface of the Luo River had already frozen. It was even worse in the river beyond the canal gates, where the ice was so thick that people could stand on it.
At this time, Wang Po and Tie Shu were standing on the icy surface of the Luo River.
Between the two was a hole ten-some zhang in radius. The waters of the river rippled within, pitch-black like an abyss.
The clap of thunder that had resounded through the capital had risen from the snowy street and ultimately descended into this hole.
Tie Shu, his hands held behind him, expressionlessly gazed across this hole, acting as if he had not struck earlier.
Wang Po held his blade horizontally in front of him. Many holes were ripped in his clothes, especially his robe. His collar and sleeves looked as if they had been blown about in some mighty gale for several decades.
