Eight hundred years ago, she was an ancient goddess who wielded the power of the bright moon. She was deprived of her divine status and demoted to the mortal world for disobeying heaven's orders to protect the people of a city. Eight hundred years later, she ascended for the third time, but no one worshiped her, and her powers were weakened. She huddled in a ruined temple with dense cobwebs, relying on the remaining incense to survive.
That rainy night, a young man in red pushed open the door and entered. He said he was a passing wealthy businessman who came to fulfill her wish under the guidance of the gods. He rebuilt her golden body and gave her various offerings every day - sweet-scented osmanthus cake, green plum wine, and chestnut soup, all of which she mentioned casually and then forgot. She was cold on the surface, but there were indescribable ripples in her heart.
She didn't know that that boy spent eight hundred years climbing from an orphan boy with nothing to the top of the world, just to stand upright in front of her one day. She didn't even remember that the child she picked up from the ruins of the massacre eight hundred years ago was him.
She forgot eight hundred years, but he remembered eight hundred years.
Cases of the fall of gods followed one after another, and the truth about the forbidden formations tore apart the thousand-year secrets of the heavens. When she traced it, she found that all the clues pointed to him, and the last link of his plan required the last drop of Mingyue's blood in her heart.
He stood in the center of the formation and smiled at her: "Azhao, eight hundred years ago you destroyed your godhead for me. This time, it's me."
It's you who enjoys infinite scenery, and it's you who fall into dust. What's important is you, not who you are.
A follower of a doomed god and her forgotten for eight hundred years - she once taught him that the bright moon illuminates the dark night, so never be afraid of the dark. But he didn't tell her that she was his bright moon.
Intention: You have forgotten me for eight hundred years, and I have remembered you for eight hundred years - in the end, it is no longer clear who we owe to whom.