A long river has turned the rivers and lakes into two incompatible worlds in the north and south, after hundreds of years of life and death, you fight for me, and how many heroes have lost their lives. The inexhaustible blood of heroes gathers in every wave of the long river, tumbling and boiling and rushing to the sea.

The green mountains are like daisies, the long river is like rainbows, and the beautiful colors on the south bank are leisurely rippling in the little fishing songs, and they are ethereal and misty hidden in the wet mist. The town is dotted with small towns, as if the gods have overturned the bead plate, and the pearls are scattered among the mountains and rivers, turning into pieces of green tiles and white walls.

The background color of the south bank is paved by the interlaced eaves of these patches of dogs' teeth, paving a gentle life like water.

A flock of white doves swept across the sky, fluttering like snowflakes, coiling towards the town under the black rock cliff.

The bustling bazaar is full of strange and varied businesses.

At the most lively street corner, the sound of gongs, the shirtless artist revealed his unique skills:

A wooden stick with a thick bowl mouth, broken into pieces with bare hands. Hundreds of pounds of hammers, others can't lift them, and in his hands it's like having wings and giving birth to a soul.

The broken bowl of the copper coin clanged. The sound of knots and admiration was endless.

The regular customer preached his skills to people, and he spoke like a god, as if he had the ability to turn the clouds and rain. Crystal sweat flowed through the bronzed skin, shining brightly in the scorching sun. In the iron-like unshakable body, there is only a rough and heroic atmosphere.

While the people were waiting to see him perform more brilliantly, the white dove from nowhere fluttered its wings and landed on his shoulder, cooed a few times, and then went into the sky.

The artist was stunned for a moment, suddenly hooked up the halberd with one foot, held it in the palm of his hand, picked up the chain on the hammer, hung it on his back, and wrapped his clothes three or five times with the other hand, and walked away.

The onlookers looked at each other and sighed meaningfully.

Not far away, a half-old gentleman at a word measuring booth smiled faintly, calmly withdrew his line, waved a handwritten flag, shook a crisp copper bell, and escaped into the crowd and disappeared into the depths of the street.

The pigeons also follow them through the bustling bazaar, into the gloomy corners behind the glitz.

The low-slung houses in the alleys of the poor streets prop up a gray sky.

At the head of the wall and in the corner of the wall, the seeds that were left behind took root and sprouted in the cracks of the stones, whether they survived or survived, after all, they firmly grasped a glimmer of life in the cramped space.

The sun does not shine on this gloomy soil, and the smell of mildew, rancidity, mixed with the smell of liquor and tobacco, runs rampant, brewing the seeds of sin.

Beggars, gamblers, ruffians, scoundrels, all idle figures pass through here: shouting and singing, wild and wanton, indulging the prodigal body, anesthetizing the soul distorted by life. They are maggots that live in the horns of the South Shore, and make all the righteous sneer.

In the depths of the most smoky gambling house, the dice cups are changing, and the beads are circulating.

Bloodshot eyes, a dry, stiff roar, a fist that swung every now and then - he'd won the whole night, and he had no intention of stopping. He always makes last-minute bets and gestures to win, and the number of points on the dice is always the same as he expected, as if his ears can really hear the subtle movements in the dice. The people around him worshipped him as if they were looking at the gods. All around him was a growing frenzy.

As the white dove circled over the alley, a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him away from the table.

The fist didn't have time to swing the man's face, and a note had been stuffed in his hand.

Hurriedly threw all the chips back to the table, unfolded the note, and with the regretful sigh of the people on the table, he shivered and scolded his mother, put on his coarse cloth robe, ignored the cold and smug smile of the master of the game, and ignored the silver taels on the table that originally belonged to him and now belonged to others, and went out in a daze.

At last penniless again, the pigeons lined up in front of the door, their heads held high and cooing as if laughing. He picked up a stone and was about to throw it, but with a hula, the pigeons rushed into the air, shook off the feathers all over the ground, and landed on him.

On the opposite side, there was a swordsman dressed in brocade. The familiar face crossed his arms and smiled at him: "Lost again?"

"How has Lao Tzu ever lost?" he jumped up, "Isn't it the boss who stirs up the game?"

"Come on, Beacon Ridge, the boss's orders. ”

As soon as he stretched out his hand, a money bag was thrown across the opposite side. The man smiled a few times, weighed it a few times, and the money bag made a rather textured sonorous sound in his hand: "The boss is getting more and more courageous." "Turn around and go.

A big hand on the opposite side was on his shoulder: "The boss asked me to tell you that this trip is dangerous, gamble a few games less, and be more careful." ”

"You bastard must have sued me again. With an understatement, his sleeves fluttered, and he melted into the darkness deeper into the alley like a gust of wind, with only the dissonant whistle scattered in all directions.

Jinyike looked at the untraceable back and muttered softly: "Cat, the boss cherishes the word like gold, and the word 'dangerous' will not be redundant." ”

Unexpectedly, a gust of wind suddenly rose behind him, and at the moment when he was about to turn around and draw his knife, a bright white flashed in front of his eyes, and he was wrapped around his body like a cloud and mist, unable to break free and unable to resist. In his vague consciousness, he seemed to see a bright red gradually smearing, perhaps, his own blood.

The terrifying voice was slow and calm, penetrating into people's hearts: "You are the first." Don't be lonely, someone will come to you soon. ”

A thunderclap on the ground illuminated the deepest part of the alley in a miserable white, and also covered up the heart-rending wail.

The smell of blood suddenly spread, dripping onto the bluestone slabs, slowly flowing into streams, seeping into the crevices of every stone brick, mixing with the earth.

An unexpected rainstorm washed away the blood and overflowed the entire street.

There were no footsteps, no cries for help, only the gurgling of rain and blood.

Quiet terror raged in the darkness.

There is never a shortage of blood flowing in the rivers and lakes. But the hearts of everyone in the rivers and lakes trembled involuntarily. The insider recognized the identity of the Jinyi Ke at a glance: "Isn't that the messenger of the Feather Chasing Sword Sect? Who has the courage to move the person in charge of Chu?"

Deep house compound. The richly dressed owner with slightly frosty sideburns stood in the flowery courtyard, looked up at the pigeon array flying by the brush, held the letter in the palm of his hand tightly, and said to the cloth-clothed guest behind him: "So there is something strange about it?"

The guest nodded, "Maybe it has something to do with Beacon Ridge." ”

The master frowned, and whispered: "Beacon Ridge? ”

"I heard that Jinyike has just come from Beacon Ridge. Only the 'cats' have a slight relationship with it. But since that day, no one has seen the 'cat', and its whereabouts are a mystery. ”

The letter in his hand quietly landed: "Should it be ......?"

The cloth-clothed guest was silent.

"It's happened that such a big thing, did the Feather Sword Sect actually say nothing?" raised his eyes, and saw a multitude of pigeons like snow fluttering by.

"There is only one voice from the Feather Chasing Sword Sect: the head is not there, and visitors are refused. Everyone knows that at this time, the head of Chu is on the way to Beacon Ridge. I don't think he can say anything at this moment, who let him focus on rushing to the Beacon Fire Ridge, and the backyard caught fire?"

The master smiled lightly: "You actually think so, the leader of the South Shore Martial Arts Alliance, would easily suffer such a dumb loss?"

"Then why didn't he come back and investigate the matter thoroughly?"

Back and forth, the sound of clogs hitting the ground seems to be caught in a cycle of reincarnation, endless. The cloth cloth guest waited anxiously. But the master was always that quiet look. For a long time, the long voice chanted like a poem: "The gentleman takes revenge, ten years is not too late." This is the twelfth autumn. Chu Tao has never dared to say anything. He doesn't say it, there is only one reason, and there is no need to say more. ”

"Students don't understand ......"

The master looked up to the sky and smiled: "What should come can't be avoided after all." The storm and clouds will meet, and the dark tide will be turbulent. Do you see those white pigeons? That is the voice he transmitted to the entire rivers and lakes: Chu Tao has already made a move, and he will not give up. ”

"But he doesn't even know who his opponent is!"

Of course he knew it - after twelve years of waiting, it was time to make a move. ”

Somehow, the cloth guest only felt that he couldn't understand a word of what the master said: "Could it be that the teacher knows who the murderer of the brocade guest is?"

The master shook his head slightly: "Let's not be too idle." sent a letter to the Chu family, and said: Although Jiang has not been in the rivers and lakes for many years, he will do his best if the head of Chu orders him. A gloomy smile was projected on the old master's face.

The guests understood and walked out quickly. Patches of white doves flew overhead, as if trying to break through the elusive haze.

However, the background color of this haze is like a divine palm, and I don't know where the edge is.

The pigeon whistle is melodious, ethereal in the rivers and lakes. Behind the calm, a storm is brewing quietly.

However, those who stand in the light will never perceive the crisis in the dark. Even if the gloom is overhead, it is always a few people who predict the storm. The days in the Ning Xiang Pavilion are still prosperous.