Meng Zifei, clad in brocade robes, flickered in and out of visibility amidst the wind and rain. The icy rain washed across his angular face, making the once smoothly elegant face seem to bear an indelible cold indifference.
He cradled the longsword, pressing it against his cheek, and murmured, "My heart harbors shadows, yet I cannot forsake the light. Caught between these two for hundreds of years, and without tearing open this illustrious body of mine, I wouldn't know what kind of rotten, decayed heart lay beneath."
He smiled self-mockingly and said, "Let's just consider these past two hundred years as an elaborate, self-deceptive dream."
Meng Zifei glanced sideways at Erhe Zangxin and smiled in response to a question, "Is this what it means to have a black heart?"
"Two hundred years ago, the moment I raised the butcher's blade against my cousin Shang Ying, that was when my heart truly blackened, when my guts turned ruthless."
