The Seventh Person

During my years at Tingyu Tower, countless people came and went, as plentiful as fish crossing a river. Yet only six left a lasting mark deep in my memory.

In the church's most hidden corner, they once prayed devoutly for power. At daybreak, the first rays of sunlight pierced the stained glass, and as light and shadow intertwined, the wheels of fate quietly began to turn. When the dust settled, only one remained, wandering alone through the cracks between the years.

I remember a snowbound street, where a white butterfly beat its wings and soared into the blue sky, as if breaking free from the shackles of the world. On the chessboard, someone once favored by fate was swept up and turned into a pawn. After struggling desperately, they finally became an outsider, watching this absurd world with cold eyes.

In the hypocritical world of fame and fortune, the only young master to emerge victorious hid an unspoken loneliness behind his smile. Among the rubble of a ruined building, a thug who broke his promise lingered on the edge of morality. And someone longing to speak poured their confusion into a black notebook, finding a silent response amid that tragedy.

For the long years that remain, let me tell you, here at Tingyu Tower, the stories of these six people born into the same world: their joys and sorrows, their twists and turns in life.