Qingli third year, autumn.
Inside the Chenliu Gate in the southwest of Bianjing's outer city, refugees huddled in the corner of a ruined temple. The autumn wind carried broken leaves and fell on Qu Aixi's face. She opened her eyes suddenly, and the choking smoke of fireworks seemed to still linger on the tip of her nose. A second ago, she was still In the recording studio of Xinglai Media, I watched sparks from the circuit fly up to the sound insulation cotton, screaming for the employees to evacuate, and I rushed to hug the server that contained the most popular audio source of the year. Then, there was a weightless darkness.
"Water... Give me some water..." His throat was as dry as sandpaper. Qu Aixi struggled to sit up, but found that his body was extremely weak, his coarse clothes were stained with mud, and there were unhealed scratches on his arms. She was surrounded by unfamiliar old buildings, and the Chinese language with a strong accent in her ears was not the Mandarin she was familiar with, nor was it the mixed sound in the recording studio.
"Is this little girl awake? The first one fainted on the roadside, and she thought she was going to follow her parents." An old woman in patched shorts came over with half a bowl of turbid water and handed it to her mouth. "Drink slowly. I drew this from the well. I hope you can survive."
