At the peak of Qian River Mountain, the clear wind roars.
The tyrants are eradicated.
This small fishing village leaning against Qian River has completely restored its past tranquility.
Indeed.
This Liu Village also has the custom of sweeping graves and offering sacrifices on this day.
A towering tree spans the mountain peak, covering half of the mountain.
An old locust tree.
Even in the harsh winter, the sparse, broad leaves still bask in the sun, rustling in the biting cold wind, swaying up and down, left and right, like spirit butterflies dancing.
Chen Yang stands alone under the tree, his hands behind his back.
Not far down the mountain, Liu Dahai's family, along with everyone from Liu Village, carefully removes weeds and twigs from the graves, lights a few incense sticks, and burns some paper money.
