This time, the female lead of the longan was called Fu Yao.
Meng Fuyao was a phoenix that spread its wings and soared into the sky. The five continents bowed their heads and the world surrendered.
But all beauty had to go through the baptism of time and the hardships of life. Beauty that bathed in blood and fire, gratitude and enmity, could only be eternal.
Just like Fu Yao, this beautiful and exquisite woman, she had once wrongly fallen in love with him.
In the forest, the young lady stood tall and firm, her voice cold as she said, "You will feel pain, sooner or later."
For no reason, she thought of Zhang Ailing's "Founding Era." This person, she always felt that her life had nothing to do with him, but she wanted him to know how big of a loss it was to lose her.
At that moment, Fu Yao, who had such thoughts, was probably hurt. Only when she was hurt would she think of retaliating.
What he wanted, she could have given him the most perfect answer. But he would never have the chance. When they met again, the pain he felt was no longer something she had deliberately inflicted on him. Strangers had their own ways of brushing shoulders with strangers. Whether a stranger was in pain or not, it did not matter to her.
She had always thought that the things she had been pursuing in her life could be temporarily put aside and reached through another method. But in the blink of an eye, she had gone in the opposite direction. Spilled water could not be retrieved.
He had forever lost the chance to pluck that beautiful flower in his hands, to let her release her fragrance and bloom brilliantly because of his care.
Naturally, there would be an elegant man who would tread on the fragrance to find the flower on the budding branch.
Zhangsun Wuji, Yuan Zhaoxu.
She tilted her head and saw his smile.
He was graceful and elegant, but his schemes were deep. His methods were ruthless and his origins were a mystery.
She could not see him clearly. She had never seen him clearly. He was calm and could see through people's hearts. He was calm and collected, and his words were frivolous.
She did not know what it was that made their hearts palpitate.
It was Meng Fuyao, trapped in the Xuanyuan Secret Cave, looking at the distant figure dancing under the bright moon.
It was Yuan Zhaoxu, who was dancing with his sword on the chilly mountain peak and saw the woman in the cave being forced to fall off the cliff.
It was Meng Fuyao who had fallen off the cliff due to her severe injuries. The man had teased her and brought her into his arms to heal her.
It was Yuan Zhaoxu, looking at the courageous and courageous woman with her hair tied up and a sword in her hand, disappearing into the night gracefully in the darkness.
It was Meng Fuyao who was trapped under the giant net and knew that she would die. She closed her eyes and heard the laughter.
It was Yuan Zhaoxu who saw how the girl went from being on guard, embarrassed and angry at the beginning to playing with Ingot, to being smart and crafty.
People like them seemed to be born to be together. His strategizing, she was full of tricks; his graceful, elegant, calm and deep, she was heroic and chivalrous, she was happy to repay kindness and enmity.
On the night before they parted, Fu Yao drank four mouthfuls of wine and was finally able to finish his sentence. He said that he wanted to repay Yuan Zhaoxu's kindness, and in return, Yuan Zhaoxu replied in an indifferent tone, "Alright."
Suddenly, he could not help but smile.
It wasn't that there was no need for it, he wasn't being polite, he wasn't looking down on it.
Such a man who could turn the world upside down and seemingly omnipotent had the world's rarest and most precious heart.
Just like many times in the past, just like in the guest room at Xuanyuan Villa when he stopped her from going out alone to face the search, his expression was calm, as if what he was doing was of no importance. He was always paving the way for her, and at the same time, thinking of a reason for her to accept it with peace of mind.
And this time, he said, "Alright." There was a kind of understanding in it — understanding the girl's pride, understanding her independence and perseverance. He knew how to appreciate that kind of beauty, and he knew how to protect that kind of beauty.
Then came the night of the Taiyuan Palace incident. Yuan Zhaoxu glanced sideways at the left side of the building. As he mounted his horse, he casually said to Qi Xunyi, "You might as well take these trusted guards of yours with you."
It was the calm smile on the tip of his knife when Fu Yao rushed through the gate, and the sudden softening of her heart and the tears that welled up in her smile.
It was the look in her eyes when he drew his bow and pointed an arrow at her. It was the unconcealable panic in her eyes when she tried to turn back on horseback. It was the fluttering of his heartstrings because of that panic.
He did everything for her without batting an eyelid. His emotions were never revealed because of the dangerous situation, but because of a single look from her, he was shaken. And her panic, her panic, was probably because of the fear of seeing him alone in the enemy's camp. She wasn't afraid that she would die. She was afraid that that person would never walk out again, and that she would never be able to see him again.
And then, and then, in the midst of the chaos, she turned back to look at Yuan Zhaoxu sitting high on his horse. Yuan Zhaoxu dressed in plain robes, elegant and noble. He didn't look at the Asura battlefield around him, didn't look at the rain of blood in front of him, didn't look at the far-reaching turmoil in the palace — he looked at her, and only at her.
When exactly would it be? She didn't know anymore. When the moment overlapped, it was as if something was bursting out of the ground, sprouting and growing. Bit by bit, it was about to grow into a towering tree.
As such, she could only wait patiently.
This is the dividing line for routine division.
(The following content involves JW's lackey spasms. Watch carefully, amen)
Gui Yuan often said, "Lousy writing", referring to her own writing.
But from "Yan Qing" to "Empress Phoenix", and then from "Empress Phoenix" to "Fu Yao", I have never heard anyone other than herself say this.
This was probably the expression of an author who was worried about personal gains and losses while writing. Although this made me, a newbie, really want to bang my head against the wall.
Let's not talk about the exquisiteness of the plot and the natural flow of the plot. Just from the perspective of the text, Longan's words were as beautiful as spring water and as quiet as the distant mountains. However, one could see the golden ripples on the surface of the water and the verdant peaks of the distant mountains. It was a silent yet vibrant beauty.
Such words would not be stripped away by the silent passage of time. They would only become more and more dazzling in the long river of time. In the end, they would condense into a quiet, indelible, beautiful as amber, and as meaningful as diamond.
But she herself was never satisfied. The degree of harshness she had towards her own text made me, a person who considered myself a turtle, blush with shame.
Actually, I have already been here for close to two years. These days, every day, I would go online and read the text. After reading the text, I would look at the comments. Looking at the various comments and Longan's replies by both familiar and unfamiliar IDs, I would feel happy and warm.
Sometimes, I would ask myself, how can I stay here for so long without getting tired. However, deep into the night, when she faced the words on the screen in the silent darkness, her heart felt at peace. One day, when it was close to midnight, the bubbling Gui Yuan came out in a frenzy and said that the chapter had already been changed for the seventh time, and even the scenes that she liked had been deleted for some reason. When she saw her health deteriorating, but in the time between Di Huang's conclusion and Fu Yao's opening, she had ruined several beautiful openings. When she was lurking, she saw her close friends in the group excitedly ridiculing each other, and she couldn't help but come out …
Perhaps it was because of this, many small things like this. The enjoyment of reading that she brought, the people that she got to know because of her and her text, the effort and compromises that she made in order to write her text, the things that she said or hid deep in her heart, in this noisy and chaotic world, are rare enough.
En, then, there is a very vulgar sentence that I have said a long time ago, but I still want to say it again: Longan, thank you for your persistence, and for the dreams that you created.
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