The original text is: I mean Lingyun, and the sword is eight wastes. The wind blows snow and swallows fly month by month. Return air sings softly, and the sword falls on Shuang Yan. Sword without trace, snow in Qian Shan!

The general idea is that the blade master slowly breathed a sigh of relief and breathed a sigh of relief towards his sword of Yuet Moon. The next moment, a crisp and melodious sword sounded, instantly dispersing the sound of the iron horse crashing like a glacier. Tian Ling sat down on the ground, her left hand and five fingers rested on her nails, and blood gushed out, staining the seven-foot-long ice sword.