In 1665, the second year of Shunzhi, spring. Pen ~ fun ~ pavilion www.biquge.info

In the name of "Qing Tibetan Scriptures", the letter came to Nanjing in person and lived in the home of the poet Gu Mengyou.

The bowl thick locust tree in the small courtyard looked blankly at the night. The slightly cloudy moonlight shrouded the courtyard, as if to pour its watery light through the thin curtain on Hanko. He carried the wind lamp, gently pushed the window open through the small desk, listened to the sound of insects chirping outside, and smiled silently.

The breeze floated, the fresh fragrance of osmanthus came in from the open window, and the faint and crisp breath danced with the wind, mischievous swirling between his nose, refreshing people's hearts. The pouring moonlight reflected on the green foliage, shimmering with the stars, and they opened their mouths wide and rushed to each other to breathe in the fresh air, trying their best to rustle the sound of collision.

A white locust flower floated in, and Han Ke stretched out his hand and gracefully caught Shi Shiran's falling locust flower. He put his hand under his nose, and the warm look in his eyes revealed some kind of complex information. He remembered that in the past, his mother would make sweet and delicious acacia vegetable dough for himself at this time.

Clean the acacia flowers, add an appropriate amount of flour, and cook them in a steamer for two quarters of an hour, and master the heat. The simple process will not destroy the faint fragrance of the locust flower, and the flour will increase the strength.

In this life, he is afraid that he will never taste the taste again that he will never forget.

Han Ke looked at the calm and peaceful night outside the window with burning eyes, he gathered the scattered middle coat on his body, slowly put the wind lamp on the table, his thin lips were slightly hooked mockingly, and the corners of his phoenix eyes were squeezed out of thin lines because of the smile, and the whole person was instantly shrouded in a layer of lifeless atmosphere.

I'm afraid that in this vast land, there are not many quiet and peaceful places like this time!

He sat down slowly, settled down, took out the manuscript paper and spread it on the table, picked up the brush with his slightly calloused fingertips, and skillfully dipped it in ink.

As if thinking about something, he hesitated for a moment before he decided to write.

He lowered his eyelids, and the tip of the pen hanging in the air fell, the stroke of the pen was smooth and powerful. The clean rice paper exudes a faint fragrance of ink, and the three regular italics of "Re-change Era" occupy most of the space.

A handful of faint candlelight jumped, as if applauding his decision merrily, and some flying insects were attracted to it, flapping their wings around the candlelight, flying aimlessly.

He looked up at the wonderful night outside the window, slowly closed his eyes, and tried to recall the deeds of the hot-blooded men and people with lofty ideals in the Ming Dynasty who were unwilling to die in the country, shed tears and blood, and died tragically.

Thinking about the scene of millions of corpses and bleeding, Han Ke couldn't help frowning his sword eyebrows, lifted his eyes, and the expression of his pupils was very sad, he bit his lower lip in pain, hung his wrist, and wrote hard. It was as if those images were right in front of me, and there was a strong fishy sweetness between the wings of my nose.

Three months later, Duoduo, the prince of Yu of the Great Qing Dynasty, led an army to attack Jinling, and the Hongguang Dynasty of the Southern Ming Dynasty, which had existed for only a few months, perished.

The entire city of Jinling was looted, and the original glory was reduced to a pile of ruins. Han Ke's face was dirty, the monk's robe was covered with black stains, he looked at the ruins of the broken wall that was still smoking and burned to black charcoal, stepped on the blue-gray stone bricks piled up with debris, his thin lips pursed, and his heart was full of grief.

The corpses were piled up in a mess, Han Ke paused slightly, slowly squatted down, he carefully peeled off the weeds covering the corpse, pulled out the spear inserted in his chest, and the bright red blood spurted out at once, splashing on his water-chestnut face.

The blood had not yet lost its temperature, and the warm touch shook him, and he looked at the wounds of the blood that were still flowing from the corpse, covering the chilling blood holes, trying to stop the blood from spreading outward, and the gap between his ten fingers was gradually dyed bright red.

Han Ke's eyes were scarlet, he squatted weakly on the messy ground, raised his head slightly, his black pupils were covered with mist, and his eyes became gloomy, condensing a thick hatred.

Green smoke rose in a curling stream, and the tiny light hidden in the shadows burned faintly, as if mocking the dusty Hanko, like a ghost, floating among the stacked corpses.

Suddenly, there was a loud thunderclap, as if the heavens were mourning for the poor dead buried under the weeds.

Bean-sized raindrops poured down on the ruined land, making a ticking sound.

The clear rain seemed to wash away all the filth, and the rain dripping on his face slowly slid down along the clear lines of the water chestnut, and the dust that stuck to it was washed away, revealing his original handsome face.

Through the drizzle of broken beads, Han Ke looked at the hazy ruins, and the whole person became a little demented.

Half-loud, the sound of the rain called him back. Seeing that the streets were empty, he looked up to the sky and laughed a few times sarcastically, as if he wanted to vent all the anger in his body.

Also, those barbaric Qing soldiers are now enjoying the joy of victory, and are doing defensive work against this city that was once resplendent but has now become dilapidated because of their trampling, where is there any spare time to take care of these innocent people who died because of them?

Put down the butcher knife...... Can you become a Buddha on the ground?

How could those savage and vulgar people understand that they were rakshasas unleashed by the devil. He cursed viciously in his heart that they would definitely go to hell when they died.

He lowered his eyebrows, his gaze fell back on the corpse lying aside, Han Ke looked at his wide eyes, and couldn't help but wonder if those Qing soldiers would feel half guilty and frightened if they dreamed of this kind of scene caused by their own hands at night.

He poked his fingertips out of the sleeves of his robes, and the blood that had turned dark red on it melted as the rain drenched, dripping onto the dirty stone bricks, and converging into a patch of red along the cracks. The rain dripped down and spun gracefully, splashing out a beautiful red crown.

Hanke's slightly rough fingertips attached to those frightened eyes, slowly slid down, and closed.

He folded his hands, muttered in his mouth, and recited Buddhist scriptures with reverence, transcending the undead who had died tragically.

After a long time, he looked around, searched around, and finally found a cart that had escaped the catastrophe. His legs became a little numb, and he slowly stood up, loaded a stiff corpse into it, and pulled it vigorously in the direction of the suburbs.