At a certain intersection in country Z, a white-haired old woman looked at her notepad. She looked up at me. I was holding a bunch of scattered crystals in my hand. She took a look and said, "A few are missing." She asked, "Do you want to hear a story?" I nodded. She turned around and took out several notepads similar to those in her hand, and described them bit by bit in slow word order. (Eg: This is the first story. This is an imaginary background, so there is no historical reference)