In this world, on the wheel of the third world, there are three flower buds, one of which blooms, breaking free from the thousands of golden threads entangled with it, and opens angrily.

At the moment when the bud bloomed, the wisps of pure white gas contained in the bud slowly drooped down, sinking on the wheel of the third world, and slowly disappeared with the rotation of the wheel.

Bingxian's eyes widened, and she nodded, an invisible smile filling the corners of her mouth.

"He, succeeded, first. Bingxian said.

Bai Lao's face was also full of kindness, but there was still melancholy in the corners of his eyes, he sighed and said, "There are still two lives." ”

Bing Xian glanced at Bai Shao, and instead cast his gaze on another bud, the light in his eyes slightly dimmed.

"····· in this life"

·······

In this life, he sat under a birch tree and quietly watched the sunset go by, day after day.

Once again, he forgot his name, and he didn't know where he came from or where he was going.

I just remember that when my eyes opened, I sat here, leaning against this birch tree behind me.

At his hand, a flute and a sword snuggled quietly on the land, like a pair of lovers.

In this life, he lived very lonely, he didn't know why he lived, he sat by the birch tree every day, watching the sun rise from the east, drooping down the west mountain, a bright moon hanging lonely on the branches, and then, the day ended quietly.

In this world, he will not be tired, sleepy, or hungry, and he will often sit for days at a time.

After a long, long time, he was tired, and the grass that had been sitting with him for so long had withered, waiting for a new sprout to sprout again the next year.

He held the thin sword, and his hand, inadvertently cut by the sharp blade, blood seeped out, and he couldn't feel the pain.

The goose-feathered snow fell, he didn't feel cold, but danced the sword in his hand, he didn't remember anything, every move was a little funny, but he still danced persistently, this was his only pleasure.

So, when the fallen leaves of the birch trees were gradually covered by snow, he was dancing the sword, and in the next spring, when the grass was growing again, he was still dancing.

The breeze blows, the geese and birds fly back, year after year, he does not change, but the sword is getting colder and colder, a word is crossed, bringing up dead leaves everywhere, the sword wind is like a trace, a huge rock is cracked, and the cut is like a mirror.

Later, he fell in love with the, when he discovered that the strange "branch" was capable of making sounds.

One day at a time.

He didn't know why he came, and in the middle of the night, he didn't want to dance the sword and blow the flute, and he began to meditate, pondering his own life, thinking about what he had and what he had now.

"People, there must be a name. He asked himself dumbly, and it was the first thing he had said in a long time.

Day and night, sword and flute, have accompanied him for a long time.

It's night, and the sound of the flute is unusually desolate.

······

In the illusion, ten years passed quietly, and the present world is only a day.

Bai Shao and Bingxian did not leave a step, as masters standing at the peak, they sat and stood one by one, often for months and years, and their hearts were already like a still water, without waves and traces.

"The long calamity is endless. Bingxian said.

"So, when and when will this catastrophe end?" Bai Shao asked with a frown.

"I don't know, maybe, as long as he can endure loneliness;" Bingxian sighed, "loneliness is a chronic poison, a wound that is difficult to heal, time will not heal it, it will only make it worse, this catastrophe, sad." ”

"A cultivator can only let time go by, and keep his own loneliness, this is what he must face. Bai Shao said.

"Who's to say it's not?" Bing Xian's gaze briefly left the Wheel of the Third World, turning to a place, not looking at anything.

Who's to say it isn't?

······

Really, in this world without any feelings, he can only be accompanied by Jian Xiao, and he is extremely lonely.

When he looked up, he would see the sunny sky, the blue he had seen countless times, in the morning, at noon, in the afternoon, although there was never exactly the same cloud over his head, but the sky was always that sky, and he was tired of it.

"What is that sky in the distance like?" he thought.

He kept thinking about it, but he was slow to put it into practice, he was afraid that if he left, he would never come back.

As time went on he became more and more impetuous, and he developed an inexplicable weariness of all the familiarity, but what was he tired of? He himself did not know, perhaps, because they were too familiar.

His sword was no longer cold, and the sword qi he swung out was no longer so sharp, but unusually furious, shattering the rock alive.

In the lonely night, he stopped playing the flute, because the sound of the flute could no longer soothe the boredom in his heart, and in this way, the flute lay down on the grass beside him again.

In the early morning of that day, he danced and danced, and a trace of anger welled up in his heart, and a dullness of years irritated him, and a strange thing that had been precipitated in his heart for a long time was about to explode at that moment—

"Ahhh

The rising sun hung on the branches of the birch, and then the birch tree broke at the waist.

It fell, and the tree that had been with him for so long, the birch tree that he was leaning on, and who was accustomed to seeing so many snowy moons and wind flowers, fell silently.

Broken by his own hands.

He was stunned, and the sword fell to the ground.

That day, he cried, and in this world without the slightest feeling, he cried very sadly.

He didn't understand what crying was, but he still cried and cried.

For some reason, his heart ached, and the pain was abruptly gone, but it was clear and abnormal.

The evening breeze was very bleak, and he leaned against the birch tree with only the stump left, and watched the night sky for the last time.

He was leaving, leaving this place, to the faraway place he had longed for for a long, long time.

He left the sword and flute beside the stump, where they had originally laid.

"I don't know how many years have passed. He said slowly, and then, taking the first step he had been slow to take.

Far away, blocked by rolling mountains, and unable to see beyond.

He climbed a mountain and saw a green forest at the foot of the mountain, and looking back, the meadow where he had lived for a long, long time was obscured by a white mist.

He walked through the woods, and there were birds, and beasts, and so many things that he had never seen before, and he smiled, and he thought, far away, so it is.

He was far away from the woods, and in front of him was a wide river, and a fish jumped out of the water and into the water.

Looking back, the rolling mountains and the verdant woods were obscured by a white mist.

Year after year, he walked through many places, and saw many things that had never appeared in that meadow, but every time he came to the distance of a place, and the original place would be obscured by the white mist.

"What the hell is far away?" he thought.

Once, when he was standing on a prairie and wanted to return to the peach blossom forest before, he found that no matter what, he could never find it again.

The peach blossom forest was hidden by endless white mist, hidden in a place he couldn't reach.

A long, long time later, he came to many, many places, and outside an unknown canyon he looked out at the lofty mountains that he had crossed, and he smiled, laughed, and laughed, and tears rolled silently.

"A long, long time ago, I always thought that the place I had never reached was called a distant place, and after a long, long time, I found that the place where I could not go back after the past was the far place, and the distant place could only be looked at by you. ”

He walked alone, seeing all the time, but he didn't see anyone, a person with whom he could communicate and look at him.

He suddenly began to miss the meadow, the blue sky on the meadow, how many different clouds had drifted over it after so long?

How many times has that meadow withered after all this time?

After all this time, is that sword and that flute still lying in the same place?

He wanted to go back and see, just a glance.

However, if you leave, you will never be able to go back, right?

Suddenly, he opened his feet and began to run as fast as he could, his eyes closed, he was tired of seeking so-called new knowledge.

After some time, he slammed into a boulder and fell to the ground on his back, blood leaving on his forehead and soaking his hair.

His face is still beautiful, the years have not left the slightest mark on his face, he is still him, but his eyes contain vicissitudes that do not match his appearance.

He looked at the sky, and he told himself that the one he saw now was completely different from the one on the meadow, but after a long, long time, he still couldn't find anything different between the two days.

The same blue, pure.

The same will float through the comfortable clouds.

So, what's so different about them? he thought stupidly.

Then, a drop of blood slipped from his forehead and fell into his eye socket, staining the world as he saw it blood-red.

He began to fear, what to fear? He did not know that at night he must have something to lean on in order to sleep, and during the day, when he walked, his hand must hold on to the same thing, and anything is good.

He began to be enthusiastic and looking for a lively place, and he would laugh when he watched the beasts of the prairie migrate and run, and then he would watch them go away, and he would know that he was the only one left on the vast prairie, and he would start to be afraid again, and then he would start to run as hard as he could, trying to find a place where he was not alone.

He would run merrily through the rain on a rainy night, trying to feel the sound around him, and he would be excited by the "uninvited" feeling of the raindrops falling on him, and he would listen to the cicadas in the woods on a cold night, or hide in a cave inhabited by animals, even if it was a fierce bear or a tiger, which could not drive him away.

He was afraid of a person.

He had seen many, many things, but he had not found anyone who looked like him.

The long journey continues, and he is still looking for the distance, but he doesn't know that the distance is getting farther and farther away.

Until one day, as he walked aimlessly, through a fog, a birch tree appeared in front of him.

He was stunned, and the thing in his hand fell to the ground without making a sound, because the soft grass was all over the place.

He can't be mistaken, he can't be mistaken, this is the place he left from, and it is also the final destination.

The stump of the birch tree was still there, and the rings on it were getting denser, and at the edge of the stump a leafy birch tree was shaking its branches.

The birch tree, which was broken by his own hands, re-sprouted from the original wound, and took on the appearance of the past.

He burst into tears.

It turned out that he had been gone for so long, and the seeds of that year had grown into towering trees.

No matter how many white horses pass by, people will eventually return to their roots and miss the purest and most innocent place.

That birch tree is still there, that blue sky is still there, that's enough, right?

Late at night, he leaned against the birch tree again, feeling the wonderful feeling brought to him by the texture on the trunk, a feeling that he hadn't experienced for many years, right?

Suddenly, he noticed two things not far away, buried in the lush green grass.

Sword, flute.

He smiled, as if he had seen an old friend he hadn't seen in a long time.

The night sky is quiet and beautiful, the galaxy crosses the sky, and the bright moon is still hanging quietly in the sky, I don't know who is watching.

Under the night sky, the young man danced with a sword, the sword was no longer as sharp as it was back then, so stubborn, it swam gently, the fluorescence lingered on the edge of the sword, and when it was swayed, it was like a curtain of brilliant milky ways.

The sword was gently put down, and he held the flute again, and blew it alone, and the flute continued to sound and sing in a low voice, like the outpouring of a man at the end of a long river of time.

"Birch, off, flute. Suddenly, Hua Li Xiao spat out these three words in the air.

"Why, after so many years of searching alone to change to a distant place and myself, I have never felt like this now, I feel like myself, I feel like myself. ”

"Birch parting, leaning on the birch, in the future, I will call the birch leaving the flute..."

"However, Xiao is too desolate, let's use Xiao instead of Xiao. ”

Memories of his past life came flooding in like a tidal wave, until he pronounced his true name.

He was stunned, the memories of his past life and this life were mixed together, which made him unable to accept it for a while.

It was a long time before he laughed miserably and said, "Today I know that I am me." ”

·······