Year after year, the flowers of Qingyue Valley bloom and fade.
The ground is covered with debris like purple clouds.
Holding the sword in his arms, he found the garland tree where he once stood. Sit against it and close your eyes.
The wind picked up, and the flowers fell down onto his face. "Xiao Xian, don't make trouble..." He murmured.
From beginning to end, he was the only one in the flower cloud.
Xiaodian, Xiaodian, where are you?
Conception: