Long Qinying was approaching seventy years old. Among the males in the Great Snowmountain, his longevity was considered rare already. His luck, however, was not quite as good: the body of his last grandson was placed in front of him, entailing that the chief of the Luoshen tribe would not have a successor.
He reached a hand out to close the eyes of his grandson before he stood up and used the same hand to grasp a long and broad greatsword. His hand was covered in wrinkles and its joints were showing, resembling a withered branch. Only those people who had touched or felt it before knew that it was still very powerful.
He walked outdoors from the low and dingy house. This was the coldest season of the year in the Great Snowmountain, such that the breath he exhaled would turn into ice. However, he felt dry and hot all over his body, and almost wanted to strip off his clothes and roll in the snow like he did when he was young.