PS: When the three idiot uncles were critically ill, they knew that there would be such a day, but when it really came, they still couldn't help but tremble and feel a little sad. I've seen Yasao, I've seen Qingke, such a beautiful writing is rare now. It took a few days for this chapter to be issued. Although I haven't seen the three idiots themselves, when I read the book, I always think of such a scene, so I wrote it, and only used this chapter to express my sorrows. It is written about the three idiots in my heart, just like the character on the cover of Qingke, the breeze and the moon.

Late at night, Yang Fan rode the little black horse he had caught on the black market again. After a few months, the foal had become a BMW, running at a galloping speed. Yang Fan carried a wooden box on his back and a knife at his waist. It's not an embroidered spring, but a very ordinary firewood knife.

For a person like Yang Fan who doesn't know how to use knives, the firewood knife is more useful in some aspects than the embroidered spring knife. His horse had already traveled twenty miles from Beijing. Late at night, the wilderness was deserted, except for the horse, which was still running into the distance. The Twelve Tombs of the Ming Dynasty are at the foot of Tianshou Mountain, and Yang Fan doesn't know why that person chose the location on Python Mountain.

The Ming Tombs are surrounded by mountains on three sides, and now Sizong is alive, so it is naturally impossible to say that there are Ming Tombs. In the middle is a small basin, the central avenue from south to north, respectively, the stone archway, the big palace gate, the bell tower, the Shinto road and the dragon and phoenix gate, and then cross a small river, from east to west, are the twelve imperial mounds.

Yang Fan did not enter from the Central Avenue, and Python Mountain was on the west side of the avenue, which was far away. Passing through the mountain stream, the continuous python mountain looks more secluded in the dark night. At the agreed moment, Yang Fan estimated that there should be two or three hours left, and he still had enough time to plan.

The large wooden knife at his waist was removed. There are no mausoleums here, and naturally there are no grave keepers. Yang Fan's firewood knife slashed along the way to the mountain.

"Xiao Hei, don't make trouble!"

Yang Fan felt that something was suddenly pushing his ass behind him, and when he looked back, Xiao Hei, who had been placed a little farther away, was holding his head against Yang Fan's ass, and seemed to feel that Yang Fan was having some difficulty climbing up, so he wanted to help him. Yang Fan's knife face gently brushed off Xiao Hei's head. "Go back." ”

Some wayward Xiao Hei just refused, and kept arching Yang Fan with his head. Helplessly, Yang Fan couldn't care so much, he had to find a suitable position before the hour. The hatchet slashed upwards. Half an hour later. Yang Fan has climbed to a height of several hundred meters. He figured that he was almost there, and made a path horizontally to prevent himself from slipping and falling as he moved.

Blackie's movements on the mountain are visibly blocked. Horses are not good at climbing, so Yang Fan opened up a path that was enough for him to walk alone. By the time all this was ready, it was already a little reddish. In half an hour. It's almost time. Xiao Hei stood on the mountain and didn't want to go down, and Yang Fan had no choice but to choose a slightly flat place, press it down, and tell it to stay in peace. Then he took a bundle of linen, and made a cloak out of the vines he had cut down from the branches and vines, and lay quietly on a bare rock, waiting for the dawn to come.

The sound of all the rustling became muffled in the alternation of night and dawn. Yang Fan took off the box behind him. The sniper rifle was used again. Of the fifty rounds of ammunition, he had only used a few. War cannot change much because of his gun, but its power cannot be denied.

The weather tonight is fine, no wind and no fog. This is rare weather in the mountains, Yang Fan, who is ambushed in the mountains, what he has to do now is to wait quietly. Wait for the arrival of the enemy.

……

……

A little farther away on the long road of the Ming Tomb, a middle-aged man, as usual, took a broom and swept up from the stone archway. Sweep all the way to the Dragon and Phoenix Gate. He was an official sent to guard the imperial tomb. Generally speaking, if an official is sent to guard the mausoleum, then his career ends there. And he has been guarding the tomb here for twenty-five years.

From the thirty-fourth year of Wanli, Dengke and the first. The career has been smooth sailing. Famous Confucian scholars all praised him for his literary brilliance in three autumns and bright moons, and his articles were thousands of miles away from the Yangtze River. And he likes to compose, but he never leaves a manuscript, and burns it when he finishes it. The only thing left, and what he thought was the worst written, was the eighth article that made the master of the year take the case. His expression was grim and meticulous. There are so many autumn sunset leaves that he can't finish sweeping, he always sweeps them before dawn in the morning, and sweeps them before sunset.

Passing through the drum tower, the man's thin body looked at Weng Zhong on both sides of the Shinto and sighed. If he wants to, whether it is the year of the apocalypse or the year of Chongzhen, he can be outstanding. That stubbornness, just like his self-name, three idiots. He was obsessed with three things all his life, reading, writing, and Go. He was more of a preacher than a courtier. Twenty-five years is enough to smooth out a person's edges and corners.

Sweeping the floor was not something he was supposed to do. Even if it is a grave keeper who has been demoted, it is still an official position, and it is indeed a little inappropriate to do the work of a person. But he should be exercising. The statues of the turtle, Weng Zhong, and the dragon on the Shinto are hideous and solemn.

When swept in front of the dragon and phoenix gate, the sky was already small. When the hour was approaching, the middle-aged man leaned over, squatted by the river, picked up a puff of water, washed his slightly hot face, and wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Crossing the river, he saw that the old man had already cooked porridge and was sitting on the edge of the chessboard waiting for him to fall.

The middle-aged man sat down slowly, scooped a bowl of millet porridge, and drank it to see where the old man landed this time. He stared at the chessboard for a long time, looked up at the pine bark-like face, and asked, "Is it still the same place?" ”

The old man nodded. This game of chess, played for 25 years, has gone from being murderous at the beginning to being sharp and introverted now, which is more like a move of self-cultivation.

The middle-aged man muttered, "I don't believe it, this time, we bet ten days to sweep the gods, plus the copying of five scriptures." The old man nodded and said, "No problem." As long as you're happy. "The old man has guarded the imperial tomb for generations, and it has been passed down to his generation, and there are no descendants to succeed. The officials of the imperial court, who were sent here, considered it a chore. Only this middle-aged man enjoys such a quiet life very much.

After the porridge was drunk, the man took out a copied book from his bosom and looked. If someone else wants to do something else half-heartedly while playing chess, the opponent will reprimand him angrily. This is a clear contempt for the opponent. However, the old man guarding the tomb didn't care. He also had his own work to do, taking an already smooth stone and carving it with a fine carving knife.

The man reads a book, sometimes composing a few sentences in his mouth, sometimes reciting in a whisper, and is very obsessed. Finally, I looked at the distant mountains, picked up one, and landed on the chessboard. The old man guarding the tomb was not in a hurry to pair, but finished carving the last stroke of the line, carefully blew off the stone chips with his mouth, and put them in his arms, before he came to see where the middle-aged man was located.

"Well, there's progress."

The man said disdainfully: "Then you say it?" Although he said so, the man's eyebrows and the corners of his mouth could not hide the joy in his heart. It was the first time the old man had praised him. (To be continued.) )