This is a legend about the long river. It's so long ago that no matter the dynasty, let alone the years.

If the world can be as simple as a flowing river, then people will be wanderers in the river who don't know where they will go, between ups and downs, tasting all kinds of tastes.

Whether it's turbid or still, you never know how it will change suddenly.

Isn't every soul by the long river adrift?

Ordinary riverside town.

The surface of the river has long been covered with ice and snow, and the earth is white, and it is impossible to distinguish between the southeast and the northwest.

Although it is on the south bank of the Yangtze River, this winter is still extremely cold. The cold wind was bitter, and every shop closed early, and the sporadic lights sprinkled through the window paper on the snow-paved streets, making the streets look even more empty.

In this weather, even if there are people who want to do business, there are not necessarily customers.

Only the crumbling window of the blacksmith still struggled to exhale the warm white gas of the stars.

Anyone who passes by will always find a rickety figure sitting behind the dilapidated window that one can't help but tear down, and look into the black hole window to see the blacksmith with white hair and a face full of smoke and fire, curled up and fiddling with his beloved tools.

The hands that were as dry as bark were full of deep wrinkles. No one knew where he came from, where his family was, and no one had spoken to him. One supposes, he told the lukewarm stove everything he wanted to say.

The old people born in the town only know that there was a deserted shop here when they were born, and no matter how busy the other blacksmith shops were, only there were never many people here.

The old blacksmith glanced out of the window, and saw a rickety figure walking slowly along the wall from the corner of the street.

What a strange man! Dressed in a thin black robe, with a black cloak with several patches on the outside, blown by the wind, a sewn cloth bag slanted over his shoulders, and a long sword hidden under the cloak. The man was as old and thin as the sword in his hand, and he walked down the street as if he was about to be blown away by the wind, his face had long been frozen purple, and the snowflakes kept beating on his robe and face, making him covered in ice, his long hair fluttering in the wind, and his beard, which was not well groomed, only made people feel dirty. Qingsi was really dyed with frost flowers, which made him age dozens of years in an instant.

He knocked on the doors of the three inns in succession, and through the cracks in the doors came a lazy reply: "The door is closed, the rooms here are full!" So he stopped at the door of the blacksmith's shop.

"Hey, come in. ”

He was stunned, as if reluctantly: "I...... I don't have any copper plates on my body......"

"It's okay, be a companion. ”

Then he dusted off the snow from his body, moved into the house, and laid the pestle by the door.

The old man led him to the fire, brought him a bench, sat down with him, and brought him a bowl of hot water, "Warm up." I haven't eaten yet, I still have a few white steamed buns left, and it's okay to satisfy my hunger. ”

He lifted his eyes, dazed.

"Who doesn't have a problem when they're away from home? So saying, the old man stuffed the bowl into him, and brought a plate of white steamed buns from the back room.

He put the bowl of water aside, and went directly to the pile of steamed buns that were as hard as stones, gobbling them up, and solved one in two bites, and finally felt a little embarrassed, raised his head and raised the corners of his mouth, which was regarded as a laugh, and slowed down. After eating, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve to wipe off the pieces, and spit out: "Is there any wine?"

The old man smiled, and took the bowl to the corner of the wall, where two wine urns were lying. He stood up, snatched the wine urn in front of the old man, tore open the seal and poured it into his mouth, leaving the old man dumbfounded. In the blink of an eye, the two urns drank not a drop of wine. After drinking, he sat back on the bench as if nothing had happened, "Anything else?"

The old man was stunned: he simply led a wolf into the door. "Jianghu people?"

He bowed his head and was silent for a long time, as if he had not heard the old man's words. All you could hear in the room was the crackling of dry firewood. Time seemed to stand still, and he condensed like a statue on the side of the bench.

In a very boring moment, the flames of boredom turned pale, reflecting his bloodless face. There was indifference in his pale eyes, and the tense corners of his mouth made people feel that this person was as serious as an iron plate that could not be pried. Others can't guess whether he is sad or happy, as if all the waves in the world have nothing to do with him.

The old man smiled: "It's another person who lives with his head up, why set foot in the rivers and lakes?" Seeing that he didn't speak, he hurriedly added, "It doesn't matter, people always have a time to be in trouble." There is no obstacle that cannot be passed. He stared at the man's sword: a bronze shell with a hint of old age. The hilt of the sword was exposed, and the cloth wrapped around the handle was black and worn, and it looked like it had been used for many years.

The stranger's eyes suddenly shone brightly, hooking and sharp, the eyebrows were like swords, and the sideburns were obliquely raised, coupled with the high protruding cheekbones and sharp chin like a knife, revealing the fierce light. He unsheathed his saber and gently rubbed the shell of his sword, "This guy has not had a short time with me. His voice was so low that he never seemed to think about whether others needed to hear it, and his eyes slowly leaked a little desolation.

The old man clearly felt that there was an invisible wall blocking him and everything around him. Why do you want to close yourself off? He clasped his hand on the hilt of his sword and pulled it out with a "whoosh". The chill was more intimidating than the snow outside, and the fire was reflected in a menacing color like blood. But his eyes gradually became gray and hollow, and at last he closed his eyes tightly and raised his head silently.

The old blacksmith's smile was frozen on his face by the sword light. He had seen more weapons in his life than he had ever seen, but he had never seen a sword that made him take a few steps backwards.

No one knew that he was once a famous swordsmith on the rivers and lakes, the Dragon Shadow Sword in the hands of Chu Tao, the head of the Feather Sword Sect on the south bank, and the Deception Sword of Qin Xiao, the head of the Tianyi Sword Sect, the first martial arts family on the north bank, were all his proud works.

"Good sword, good sword!"

The old man involuntarily approached slowly, and looked at it repeatedly in the dim light:

The diamond-shaped cross-section, the overly sharp blade spreads abruptly in the middle, slightly in the shape of a cross star, and the two thin blood grooves on the back of the sword on the front and back stretch out like a snake, intersecting in the middle of the sword, and the black but scorching luster envelops it, like a person who has come to kill it. Its material is top-notch in terms of hardness and toughness.

However, near the base of the blade, a crack-like mark slashed diagonally, and the edge of the blade curled up slightly, where the black luster converged and dimmed. It is like a wound that can never heal, reminding the world of a sad past.

The old man shook his head and sighed: "It's a pity, this sword can't get rid of the fate of being just and easy to break after all...... The sharper the weapon, the more tragic its fate is. ”

"Who doesn't have a wound? It knows its own past, and I only use it to kill. The words he threw out lingered in the air as if they had an echo. The eyes were gloomy, staring at the sword, as if there had never been such a sword in his eyes. "The hilt of the sword is loose, and it should be tightened. ”

"Just stay a little longer. The sound of "ding ding dong" immediately sounded on the stage.

The old man didn't want to know what this excessively thin and gloomy man would do with this sharp weapon, he had long been accustomed to ignoring it, just like every employer who came and went in a hurry, all he had to do was to help them complete a weapon. The hilt of the sword was really easy to deal with, and when it was finished, the old man glanced at the scars on the sword again, and regretted it.

The swordsman took the sword and swung it lightly a few times, and the room immediately shone with a strange light. He nodded: "I will pay for the meal and salary, wait." The sound was still echoing in the shop and the crackling of firewood, the man had disappeared without a trace, and the footsteps in the snow confirmed that he had come.

Soon a child brought an envelope containing only a silver ticket of one hundred taels. There was no word of mouth.

The old man immediately chased out the door, and the street was bustling and extremely lively. It turned out that a gang of vicious horse thieves had fallen into the legal net, and the people of the town rushed to tell each other.

On that day, the locker of the government treasury was opened, and I don't know what sharp weapon divided the padlock into two, and many of the belongings in it were there, only the one hundred taels of silver that was short of the bounty, and the moment the door was opened, a note fell with the wind, and it was written: The horse thief was caught and took it by himself. When the officers and soldiers chased them to the horse thieves' lair, they were neatly stacked with their looted belongings. The seven chiefs were tied up one by one and thrown aside in the bushes, each with a wooden sign on his chest that read the crime, and their chief leader was already in a different place. No one knew who did this, and the horse thieves only gave a unified account of the man in black, and as for the physiognomy and appearance, there were thousands of contradictory theories.

"Have you ever seen a ronin, dressed in black with a strange sword. The old man inquired when he met someone, and I don't know how many people shook their heads and walked out of the blacksmith shop, and there was a flash of surprise in their eyes, helplessness, and fear, but no one was willing to put it into words.

The days went by, year after year, and the old man had forgotten the ronin, and he had almost forgotten the stove, and had forgotten the stories that he had been repeating by the stove.

But in the middle of the night, the black figure reappeared: the same murderous atmosphere, the same shabby clothes. Only the sideburns, which were dyed white at some point, reminded the old man that time had passed in a hurry. The remnant sword evoked the old man's memories: "Do you still come to repair the hilt of the sword?"

"Nope. His gaze was still resolute, "Please fix it as before." The words are as clear as hammer sounds.

The silver-threaded old man stretched out his trembling hands and smiled: "It's impossible, unless you go back in time to twenty years ago." ”

He took a step back in astonishment, waking up like from a dream, and then a pale gloom appeared in his eyes, like the sky when the old man first saw him: "Twenty years ago? Yes, no one can go back......

"It's getting dark, why don't you go inside and have a drink?"

He suddenly smiled bitterly: "It's been dark, I haven't drunk in years." Thanks a lot. The old man stood in amazement, wondering what kind of imprint the past twenty years had left on his heart.

The gloom in his eyes gradually diffused into a faint sadness, and then he turned away, and the black robe flew away, taking away his traces as if it had melted into the night, like the wind, unpredictable.

A month later, in the early morning, the old man found the broken sword at the foot of the blacksmith's shop, and it was still heavily stained with blood. A blood-stained silk handkerchief was tied to the hilt of the sword. The old man untied the silk handkerchief and read four crooked words written in blood: "The long river sinks into the sand."

He was frightened and walked the streets, hoping to find the person who delivered the sword, but there was not even half a figure on the cold street, only the cold wind whining and whistling. With a helpless sigh, the old man threw his sword into the boiling furnace, and let the fire dry wood devour everything.

Since then, there has been no news of this ronin in the world.