A cold flute plays lonely music, the sound of the flute is indifferent to the years, and the smoke and clouds are hesitant. That music is the trace of weariness hidden in the wind, the misty nothingness that moves with the wind, and the ambiguity and tenderness that accompanies Wenlang...
The wind picked up, carrying an unsettling aura. Also fluttering in the breeze were Wenlang's lavender hair, white printed ribbons, wavy weeds on the vast grassland, and the eagle flying low over Wenlang's head.
Wenlang twitched his nose and turned to look at the starry night sky in the south. There was a big mountain there. Wenlang said softly: "A monster...?"
A faint smile appeared on the corner of his mouth.