But every stab carried an indescribable certainty.
As if this sword strike was the conclusion.
For dead things, it was a complete disintegration.
For the action itself, was it Perfection after countless repetitions, reaching the pinnacle?
Around him, no one laughed at him anymore.
The new young butchers just looked curiously at this strange old man, listening to the older butchers narrate his "legend"—a madman who spent his whole life killing pigs with a sword.
Finally, one day.
Old Zhang did not appear at the slaughterhouse anymore.
People began to discuss.
"Old Zhang didn't come today? That's unusual!"
"Did you hear? Last night, he passed away at home."
"Passed away? Well, that's a relief. His life was quite twisted."
"Yeah, had perfectly good butcher knives but insisted on using that broken sword."
"Dying is maybe for the best; I heard his family was long gone, left all alone."
The discussions carried notes of mundane sighs and incomprehension.
