Qin Qingluo closed her eyes and rested on the hillside.
The mountain ridges were shrouded in mist. She had removed her heavy armor and was now wearing a simple deep green garment, its muted hue blending into the night, making her appear as if she were part of the mountainous landscape. She raised her hands slowly and spread them apart, mimicking the posture of holding a gun, adopting an ancient and timeless gun stance.
For an instant, she seemed to touch upon the gun intent of old. Though her hands wielded no weapon, her heart carried the gun. Her steps lightly shifted—the motion began, then completed. The infinite variations of gun technique ultimately stem from the circle; its advances and retreats carried precision and purpose. The emergence of the gun intent was profound, sweeping in like the mighty force of taming dragons and subduing tigers.
The visage of a red-clad woman came unbidden to her mind, and she suddenly shuddered, a fleeting pain piercing her consciousness.
