Upon leaving the city gates, Ying Yin wore a somber expression as he met the funeral procession carrying the coffin.
In the outskirts, the cold wind rustled.
This place was scarcely inhabited, surrounded by a vast expanse of white, all marks covered by snow.
Orderly soldiers appeared.
Each wore mourning attire, with white sashes around their waists, carrying the coffin, unable to hide their grief, trudging forward numbly.
No one spoke.
Only occasionally, a sob or two could be heard.
There were also strange, unknown birds calling chaotically,
The loneliness of the outskirts magnified, casting a dreary oppression upon the heavens.
Xiao Huaian no longer stirred up trouble, staring intently at the coffin, falling into a deep silence.
On the way back, white lanterns hung high on both sides of the road, mourning flags swaying in the wind, paper money fluttering.
Everywhere, the sorrow of mourning was evident.
