The heroes of the Xiong Ying faction gradually returned to Jiangnan from the prairie.
The plum rain season in Jiangnan always carries a lingering sense of melancholy. When the rain clears and the sun first appears, crystalline droplets still cling to the blue stone steps of the Piaomiao Peak headquarters, refracting into a scattering glow in the morning light. Moss meanders along the stone step crevices, adding a touch of softness to this deadly place. The copper bell at the corner of the meeting hall's eaves is stirred by the wind, producing a clear sound, which intertwines with the faint sound of pine waves from afar, like the prelude to a Jianghu ballad.
Liao Pei stands outside the meeting hall, the wear marks on his Long Arm Fist gloves are clearly visible, marks left by countless battles.
He takes a deep breath, his gloves heavily knocking against the copper ring, the dull sound startling the cold crows resting under the eaves.
