The wind and snow in Changbai Mountain have not changed for thousands of years, roaring through the forest sea, carrying ice crystals and past events. Amul stood on the edge of the cliff, his black robe rustling in the strong wind, and the copper bell on his wrist made a dull sound, just like that thunderstorm night three hundred years ago. "The 300th thunder from heaven," he murmured to himself, "if you survive this calamity, you can turn the dragon into a dragon."
But he knew in his heart that he couldn't survive it. It's not that I can't, it's that I don't want to.
The moment the thunder and lightning struck, what appeared in front of his eyes was not the pain of practicing cultivation for thousands of years, but the woman holding an oil-paper umbrella in the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River. When she smiled, the corners of her eyes were crooked, like peach blossoms blooming in early March.
"Amul, you are distracted again." The woman's voice is still clear after three hundred years, "Have you finished copying today's scripture?"
He suddenly came back to his senses, and the thunder was already in front of him.
