September 20, 1010 in the solar calendar.

Far north, the holy land of falling snow, Meishan.

It was late autumn.

Late autumn in the far north is always different from other places, and if September is the golden autumn season, the golden light is everywhere you look, along with the warm sunlight, the swaying leaves, and even the insects and chaffinches seem to shine with dazzling brilliance.

Flowers, fountains, clouds, and more.

It's all golden.

It is a particularly quiet and splendid scene.

But the far north is a little different.

Even though it is so quiet and peaceful.

However, along with the atmosphere, there is a sense of desolation, and for the Far North, autumn is not only a harvest season, but also a season of withering and death.

It's sad to feel more intuitive than ever before.

It's like a wanderer who can speak poetry.

In addition to the sense of silence, there is no trace of sadness.

It was a sense of abruptness that made the living soul lose from the bottom of his heart.

Autumn rain, autumn rain, a west wind blows.

It is not only a time when the haze is all over the sky, but also a time when depression and silence are pervasive.

The haze in the distance was heavy, like a black boulder pressing down on the hearts of all living beings, and the mighty aura called Tianwei diffused.

A little rain drip fell on the eaves, and the autumn rain in the distance was densely woven diagonally. The fog is swaying, the wicker is swaggering, and the natural sounds belong to the dance.

The wet fallen leaves were all over the ground, and in this area, whether it was dirt or bluestone slabs, at this moment, it was already occupied by fallen leaves, golden, green, and pieces of it were left on the ground.

Since ancient times, autumn has been sad and lonely.

Even the autumn rain is cold to the bone, different from the cold wind in winter, the autumn rain is the so-called cool, sad, lonely, but not cold. Rather, it is something that is felt from the bottom of the heart, called negativity.

In autumn, everything is always lost negatively.

Maybe it has something to do with the smell of the atmosphere itself.

After all, it's something that doesn't matter.

In the autumn rain.

A black-robed man stepped into the Falling Snow Emperor City like an ordinary monk. In the hazy smoke, it is the coolness of the rain that diffuses. There were wet flowers on the side of the road that were bent over, and golden leaves scattered on the bluestone slabs.

In the rain.

Wandering strangely in this city full of vicissitudes and quaintness, he did not care about the clothes and hair that were already soaked, and there was no sorrow or so-called coolness in his eyes that were as quiet as autumn.

Fantasy watched.

In the autumn rain, there are pedestrians holding oil-paper umbrellas.

Or look at the rain, or pace indifferently like autumn rain.

In the mist.

Except for the sad voice of the autumn rain.

Everything is quiet and silent.

Even the footsteps of pedestrians are full of the feeling of freedom.

This coolness.

It's so strange that it's familiar.

The illusion trampled on the wet fallen leaves, and beneath the fallen leaves were bluestone slabs.

Even the smell of the rain is so different.

In the autumn rain.

The vision is slightly blurred.

I don't know when.

Standing in front of him is the reader who blocks the way of the illusion.

In the center of the pedestrians, with their backs to the pedestrians, they gaze quietly, without joy and worry-free, and there are no waves in the ancient well.

Fantasy stopped and looked squarely at the man dressed as a scholar who was blocking his way.

Elegant and easy-going, with a breeze on both sleeves.

It's as soothing as a spring breeze in February.

So, he fantasized about taking a detour, and it was better to ignore him.

So, after a little hesitation.

The man dressed as a scholar was the first to speak.

"Yu is the lord of the city here, named Xue Yi. ”

Hearing this loud voice is like reciting poetry.

Fantasy really didn't want to pay attention to him.

The rain is getting heavier.

A hazy mist rises.

It's like spring.

Suddenly, an oil-paper umbrella appeared in front of him.

And the fluttering voice.

"It's raining, you should have an umbrella!"

Phantom back.

only to find that the Snow City Lord had dissipated into the void and merged with the rain.

Fantasy picked up the oil-paper umbrella, like an ordinary passerby, walking and assimilating among the pedestrians, it seemed to be hidden in the sadness of this autumn day.

The rain is slightly cool, and the slanting wind is cool.

There was a sloping rain that wet the long hair in front of the strange forehead, and water droplets dripped down the hair and fell onto the eyes and cheeks.

If you talk about the purpose of this trip.

What is it?

Get rid of confusion and drift away.

A life free from darkness and pain.

There are only beautiful memories of childhood.

Where did the first day take place?

It's located next to the snow mecca, in an area called Koyanagi Village.

The memory is a little mottled.

Even the original words and emotions have faded.

It was a period of time, and even if I think about it now, I will feel deeply miserable days.

The more painful it is, the more determined it becomes.

Just like the anxious heart at this moment, only by wandering in the abyss of pain can you feel the so-called regret and the weight you have to carry, so as not to be assimilated and lost.

The power of atmosphere is not something you can match.

The same is true of the time of pleasure.

Habits, on the other hand, can degrade people.

The illusion of contrast is convinced.

In the glitzy world, the slightest carelessness will plant the seeds of taboos, and once planted, unless natural and man-made disasters occur, only death can be liberated.

Called the Seed of Desire.

That's the devil's fruit.

Shu Yi will always make people sink, and if they sink, they will fall.

A person who has destroyed the conscience of human nature cannot be called a human being, but a demon cloaked in the skin of a monk, a true demon, a smiling person who gives the world a calamity and a calamity.

Far more terrible than everything.

Far from stopping, the autumn rains are intensifying.

Raindrops fell on the bluestone slabs, causing blisters and ripples.

The illusion came to the impression.

The ruined home.

It is not a home, at best a temporary residence.

But it's incredibly warm.

To this day, I still feel like a dream.

If someone loves their place, that is their place.

When I was a child, I was undoubtedly happy.

The appearance has changed dramatically.

Gone are the memories of the past.

And rightfully so.

It can't exist.

After all, for more than ten years, people go to empty buildings.

It was a real time.

The impression of home has become a trampled, muddy road.

The illusion of sorrow.

Holding an oil-paper umbrella to watch the autumn rain.

Stirred up a flurry of thoughts.

Sorrow turned into a swallow in February and flew into the distance.

Throughout the ages, how many heroes and sages have been lonely.

Origin and fate, fate and death.

The eerie and desolate state of mind cannot cause any substantial results, only makes it more negative.

The golden cinnamon is fragrant, and the fallen leaves are flying.

The grass and trees are hanging down in the rain.

Sad and lonely.

The illusion sniffed lightly, which was already very different from the impression of the atmosphere.

Now it's a moist autumn fragrance.

After all, the impression is a floating shadow

The past is a complete bubble, like a mirage, although it is real, happening, guiding you to the front, without stopping to step down.

But after all, it's unrealistic.

Fantasy also doesn't need reality to satisfy itself.

All the fantasy needs is to dwell in empty and faded memories.

That sister won't be in front of her.

I understood it, and I let her down.

Maybe she's too ruthless, maybe she's too selfish.

Cultivate yourself like this, and then say goodbye without a sound.

This is too cruel for fantasy.

No matter how much you search, you can't find a paradise with her.

The sorrow of the separation between heaven and man is always like this rain.

Cool thoroughly.

It's the so-called killing and strife.

Goal vs. Distance.

For fantasy, it's all luxury.

The so-called confusion, the so-called burnout.

The so-called cultivation, the so-called enjoyment.

Fantasy is not needed, fantasy does not need anything.

I like to immerse myself in the sublimation of myself more than to be noticed. Compared with being ambitious, Fantasy cherishes the current autumn rain more.

Though.

It's so heart-wrenching at the moment.

But it seems that the spring of the coming year will eventually erase all the pain.

Even painful wounds will be calmed.

Just like this moment.

I don't know how long the reality will last.

To the fantasy knows, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, this sense of reality will follow this noisy wind, together to the unknown place.

Perhaps, there is paradise.

Perhaps, it is a pure land.

It is a place where there will be no pain or sorrow, where everyone is happy and serene, and where no one worries about tomorrow's depravity, the dust of the past.

It's a dreamlike place.

Fantasy is somewhat obsessive.

If there really is such a place in the world.

I wish all living beings could go with me.

Although he has compassion for the world.

But after all, I just don't want to repeat the bitter past.

Thinking about it as a matter of course.

He lives without any purpose, without any real sense of desire, and without any interest in material things.

After all, everything in this world is futile and meaningless.

This is the truth of this world.

It doesn't matter if it's indifferent by nature, or it's scathing.

After all, it's dust.

After all, the infinite cycle of repetition is the fixed path of living beings.

The edge is deep and shallow.

This sad and noisy life.

Asceticism or enjoyment.

Like a bird in the autumn rain.

Whether it's sad or meaningless.

It's like a flower that hangs down its waist.

But, after all, you have to live.

There is no reason.

Like a toiling worm.

Even if you can't get by.

And to live by all means.

Like a motionless boulder.

It's the instinct of living beings.

No matter how sad it is.

Even though life is not a reincarnation, it is just a similar process repeated by countless people.

That being said.

Can.

There is also the truth, goodness and beauty that exist in the world.

It is precisely because of the rarity that it is rare.

It's because it's a little bit of a thing.

But it is also automatically shielded by the degenerate.

That's the saddest thing.

The so-called depravity is addiction.

Creatures have their own hearts.

Penetrate all the confused hearts.

Fantasy paced in the rain.

The back of the oil-paper umbrella was a little lonely in the rain.

And it's drifting away.

The autumn rain is pouring in.

Everything is silent.

It's like a distant hazy sky that is gradually pulling away.

Out of reach.