Qingqing

There is a school palace in Zhongzhou, hanging above the world. There are no borders there, just the sound of books and pear blossoms. Six children were sent in, thinking that they were classmates, siblings, and future humerus. They don't know - they are carefully selected crickets, raised in the same jar, waiting for one day to decide the winner. That was the tacit understanding between the two emperors: resources were limited, the population was overpopulated, and the war could not produce results after hundreds of years. It is better to put the best seeds together, water them with the best education, and then... See who blooms first, who grows thorns first, who learns to water his own roots with the blood of others first. There are rules in the academy: no selfishness. But who can really be selfish? Some people stole wine, some were punished by kneeling, and some handed out a sachet embroidered with bamboo patterns through the window lattice. The pear blossoms bloomed again and again, and they thought their lives would continue like this. Until one day, an edict shreds all innocence—— It turns out that the erased national boundaries have always been there. It turns out that they were never a family. It turns out that "no selfishness" is not because the world is unified, but because - Intimate affairs will make people unable to do so at the moment when they have to wield the knife. This is a story about war. But there is no battlefield, only the vacancies calculated from the sand table that can never be filled; there are no swords and swords, only the arrows of compatriots shot from behind. This is a story about sacrifice. Some died on the battlefield, some died in the rear, some died at the peak of power, and some died in the wasteland by the Blackwater River - before they died, they had a faded sachet close to their body, and the fragrance had long since dissipated. This is also a story about seeds. When all the iron hoofs stopped, when all the plots were settled, someone sent a grain of grain, with the postscript saying: Whether the world is safe or not does not depend on the height of the palace, but on the reality of the streets. The six people have completed their respective arcs. Some become flames, some become ashes, some become sacrifices, some become thrones. And the man sitting on the throne, many years later, holding a seed, suddenly thought of a question—— If the answer is always in the soil under your feet, Then the blood they shed back then, What on earth is it? This is a story about "privacy". Those crushed by war, exploited by power, and forgotten by the times, are the last soft things in people's hearts. Their name is Qingqing. Intention: May every year be worry-free.