The sword finally moved.

It did not make a earth-shattering roar, only in the master's palm, drew a quietest and straightest line, pointing toward that indifferent, ancient-overlooking sky dome.

The tip of the sword had no thunder, only a very fine, faint ink mark, like a drop of tears about to dry, blown by the wind toward the clouds. The sky dome trembled slightly, not shattering, but revealing an extremely subtle crease, as if an ancient stone carving had been gently brushed by the passage of time, removing a trace of dust.

Light seeped out from the crease. It was not the light of the sun, moon, or stars, but a kind of unprecedented light, somewhat like dawn yet also like dusk, gentle and hesitant. The clouds began to flow, in an unprecedented gentle manner, slowly and clumsily, trying out a new rule.

He simply lowered his arm slowly, the tip of the sword slanting toward the earth. Deep within the earth, a long, dull rumble sounded, like a pulse beginning to beat, mountains and rivers unfolding.

The sky did not break, only a straight line, a gap of breath, was pierced open by a human will.

He looked up, watching that light spill onto his weathered face, saying nothing. Behind him, the vast land and billions of creatures still slept, unknown to all, from this moment on, some things have quietly changed. #黄金白银再创新高