An eagle, hanging in the sky.

It is hanging, and it can only be described as hanging.

It barely moved, spread its wings, high in the sky, slowly, slowly, moving.

There is no daylight, the clouds are vast, and the wind is turbulent.

Fang Yin looked out the window for a long time, the eagle, without any expression on his face.

Why is it so high that it is so high, so high that it is so high that you can only see its shape and hear its sound, so high that it is lonely and lonely.

It must be colder there!

This winter, it was exceptionally cold.

How many years have you been here? Ask yourself, sigh, it's been five years!

Fang Yin grew up and seemed to have gained nothing, but he had lost his former happiness.

Why? Why? The voices murmured, and no one responded.

There are only a dozen young Taoist priests in the courtyard, practicing swords in the light of daylight, one, two, three, four-

Twelve.

It's thirteen, and there's also a Lu Daochang.

There are a few more wrinkles in Lu Daochang, and there are a few more apprentices in Lu Daochang.

One, two, three, four, four newcomers. They all looked familiar, but they couldn't be named. That doesn't matter, if you don't do Fang Yin's business, Boss Fang can't take care of that much! This is where Wuzifeng, the little Fang Taoist priest lived. Everything is so familiar, it seems to go back to the past, but there is no interest in it, and I don't bother to think about it. No energy, no energy, no energy, no energy! Daoist Fang doesn't care about anyone, only about himself.

That face.

The black and red scabs, knotted on the pale face, are staggered horizontally and vertically, and vary in length.

No, it's broken.

To be precise, it's broken again.

The face is tight, painful, itchy, swollen, and upset.

It's the third day, in the afternoon.

Shangqing Peak, Wuzi Peak. Daoist Fang came in the morning and carried it down for Daoist Lu. Fang Yin didn't want to come here, Fang Yin wanted to go back to Baicao Peak, Fang Yin didn't want them to see their appearance and see this face. But there was no way, Daoist Fang's vitality was greatly injured, and his two legs lost the strength to walk, like a waste person.

When a person is wasted and his heart is dead, what do he have to do with his face?

Fang Yin shook his head with a wry smile, sighed, and gently closed the window.

During this period, Daoist Fang once looked in the mirror once, and in any case, Daoist Fang still cared very much about his face. Just a glance, of course. One glance is enough, miserable, indescribable! A beautiful man, turned into an ugly monster, the huge psychological gap made Fang Daoshi's already fragile mind can no longer bear it, at that time, he thought of hitting his head to death after falling in the mirror, and he had some thoughts of self-abandonment.

It's a shame to be alive, it's better to be dead!

No one felt that Fang Yin was ashamed, but Fang Yin himself felt ashamed, Fang Yin felt that he was just a joke that was not funny at all, and it was superfluous to live in the world. Fang Yin was lying on the bed, boredly flipping through a book, Qingping Sword Technique. This book is also a joke, it makes people cry and laugh even more than Daoist Fang, this is not a sword book at all, it is not from beginning to end!

A thin volume, only seven or eight pages, white paper, black letters, clear ink and new paper, as if it had just been copied not long ago. Yes, this is not the one handed down by Patriarch Qingyun, it is obvious that this is a fake. It doesn't matter, a book is a book, an ancient book or a copy, the real value lies in the content. This is a sword book, with four big characters on the cover: Qingping Sword Technique. And the content inside is also real, leaving people speechless.

Page 1.

The wind, starting from the end of Qingping, feels light and happy; floats in the eight wildernesses and four wildernesses, blowing all things and circles; rises and falls in the clouds, the ambition is high and solid. Spring, summer, autumn and winter, infinite changes; Or tender like water, with affection, or majestic, majestic rivers and mountains, or like crying like swallowing, like singing like complaining, or roaring and roaring, shaking the earth.

Spring is hazy, and the cold is slightly warm. Yin and Yang are intertwined and wild, and heaven and earth are lingering and cyclones. The willow silk shakes gently, the beginning and the wind is at the beginning, the branches and leaves are green, and then the sprout is warm in the green clothes. The feeling is weak and warm, the leisurely brushing of the painting curtain, and the Zhu Pavilion is leisurely, eliminating the melancholy of the ugly room. The veins are warm and the wind is drunk, the flowers and thousands of trees are drunk, and the spring dream is sleeping with the clouds and rain.

Summer is quiet, full of green mountains. Roundabout the suburbs and Lin Mang, gather the Chanyuan of the three springs. The wind and grass are strong, accompanied by the dust and mist of the sun shaking low, and the shore is tinglan, and the dancing glow is undulating clouds and smoke. You swim in the willow branches and leaves, and fall in the thousands of miles of mountains. Shake the distant mountains to be green and green, move the grass to green smoke, blow near the water to ripple, and the phantom oblique to fish joy.

Autumn is bleak and desolate. The grass is in the color decay, and the fallen leaves are shaking to the sky. Shoulder to shoulder with the bleak rain, the slightest dripping in the red silk curtain; Ruthless in the yellow leaves mourning, roaring in the wilderness forest springs. Disturb the Luoxia with helplessness, cover the dawn of the moon with clouds, make Xiao Xiao with full eyes, and turn the murmur into cold.

The winter is cold and steep, and the roar climbs. Chanting Xiao Sa quietly with all things, sweeping the flying snow and covering the sky with scales. Or waiting for the cold night, frightened by the desolation and bleakness of the warm pavilion, or the dawn window, accompanied by frost and cold in the harsh winter. Gather and scatter the left and right, the desolation of the reckless wilderness, and the ambition is to kill the ice of the universe, forcing the rivers and rivers to solidify their faces.

The wind is sluggish and the water is cold, and the strong man is also disgusted when he hears it.

The wind is swaying and the clouds are all over the sky, and the song of the warriors is also extended.

The wind is miserable and sleepless at night, and the beauty is soft and cold.

The wind and dreams have no fate, and the beauty is also empty.

Page IV.

A large text is sprinkled with beautiful words, magnificent and magnificent, breathtaking!

But what's the use?

This is a sword spectrum, I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do below, and I can't distinguish between the southeast and the northwest.

On the fifth page, a fish is drawn, a blank piece of paper is only a fish, a few strokes, ugly as a naughty boy graffiti.

Page 6 is blank.

There is a circle in the middle of the seventh page, and a horizontal line under it, like a white roll, gives a zero egg.

On page 8, there is one word, just one word: guess.

Nope.

This is what Mu Zhangjiao said, created by the patriarch Qingyunzi, after dozens of generations, it has been a thousand years, the swordsmanship is mysterious, and the sword leads to the way of heaven, and it has reached the supreme realm - that book.

Sure enough, peerless swordsmanship!

Just kidding, no wonder no one has practiced it.

It seems that Patriarch Qingyun is also a person who loves to joke, although this joke is not funny at all.

Daoist Fang smiled, as if he understood.

Yes, the peerless swordsmanship is matching the peerless character, and Daoist Fang smiled very coquettishly.

Laughing in his sleep, he said nonsense: "Guess what, guess the ghost! Guess you, dead man's head!"

copied and copied, copied a large paragraph, felt embarrassed and embarrassed.

There is a lot of copying of articles in the world, and copying other people's articles can only show that others write better than their own, which can be said to be beyond the reach of the dust. But once again, I appreciate the beauty of words, which is our words.

It makes me proud and proud!

"Wind Fu", Note.

Don't copy the wind, in the meantime, the king, the majesty, I don't like it.

I don't think it's a note, I think this one is better written than Feng Fu.

I don't know who wrote it, but it's strange that such a text is also nameless.

I copied it with a pen, and I copied it with a pen, and I copied it word by word on paper.

As a sign of respect.