He had left the Sword Monument and was now kneeling in the vast snowy land.
In front of him lay a Frost Coffin, shrouded in a silver-gray mist of profound frost.
Around the coffin, fresh green vines entwined and sprouted, with sparse flowers trembling delicately, radiating an aura of vibrant life.
Yun Rong lay quietly inside that Frost Coffin, clutching the sheathed Snow Sword, her eyes closed in calm repose.
The terrifying wound on her chest was slowly healing amidst the chill of the profound frost, the pierced wound had already scabbed over with pale new skin.
Her breath was weak, yet it did not lack vitality.
For Arao, however, she hardly cared whether Yun Rong was alive or dead, as a bone-chilling cold spread from her heart throughout her body.
The man kneeling beside the coffin, covered in blood, had a deep, dark red wound from a Demon Spear through his chest.
