Vast snowfields, ten thousand miles of ice.
Heaven and earth are pure white, the cold wind sweeps through the mountains, even time seems to be frozen and slow.
Deep within the mountains, the Great Snow Temple stands silently amid the wind and snow.
Red walls covered in snow, dark tiles encrusted with frost, the ancient temple, adorned in no luxurious ornament, suppresses the desolate chilliness of the entire snowfield with a tranquil and solemn aura, adding a touch of purity to this vast, cold land.
At the end of the snowy ancient path, a figure treads through the snow.
Barefoot monk, chest bared, loose cloth, a simple bamboo basket on his shoulder.
His strides are leisurely, leaving one footprint at a time, snow settling underfoot, untouched by the cold wind, and not even the slightest bit of frost taints his clothes, his aura akin to a wild crane in the clouds, unbound and carefree.
Along the way, monks from afar bow and join their palms in quiet salutation:
