"Clouds stretch across Qinling—where is home?" The snow confines the blue pass, halting the horses.
As the typical dividing line between the north and south, Zhao Changhe traveled north on a Flying Horse, fortunate to witness a mountain range separating the two, the south free of snow, while the north lay thickly blanketed.
After flying over the ridge, a chill instantly struck, even causing his Wuzhui horse to shiver involuntarily, hesitant to proceed.
Upon seeing the silver-clad scenery ahead, Zhao Changhe was quite moved.
When he returned from overseas, it was the initial snow, and though winter had not fully passed by now, it already felt as though several years had stretched on. So much had happened in these two or three months...
Situ Xiao joked, claiming those deeply immersed in cultivation would soon grow white hair...
