Feng Xian walked out of the Ninghui Palace, and people knelt in the darkness outside. They were either sincere or fake. He had seen a few of them clearly in the past ten years, but he never cared. The young master completely concealed his sadness the moment he walked out of the door, so the words "The master of the pavilion is gone" that fell in everyone's ears seemed extremely cold-blooded and cold-blooded.
The sobs that had stopped with Feng Xian's appearance started again, and the cries became one big sound. He raised his eyes as if he felt something amidst the broken and shrill sounds all over the ground. A gust of wind blew by, and the orange patches in his blurred vision had a boundary - it was a half-red sun hanging above the horizon.
He finally couldn't bear it any longer and turned around almost embarrassed, his front being wet with tears.
The setting sun was like blood that day, but the one who loved to tell him to look up could never come back.
Intention: No matter the storm, I am who I am.