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... 面向 She faced the north, holding the most precious sword in her hand, and slowly took it out of the sheath. The simple and sharp blade reflected the lights under the tree, seemingly bright, but so cold and lonely.

No tears, no smiles, no sadness, no joy.

For six years, more than 2,000 days and nights, whenever she could not see the road ahead, she would stroke the word "Zhao" engraved on the sword body over and over again, write it horizontally, and draw silver hooks with iron, Vigo ...

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