Memory blurs the year when
A boy held a bamboo flute. Deep in a bamboo grove, its notes curled through the clouds.
A girl, bare-faced and dressed in white, raised her sleeves and danced to the clear flute music, turning with the wind.
The boy was full of chivalrous spirit, white-feathered bow in hand, arrow aimed at a carved eagle. His sword roared in the western wind as he roamed the world, keeping his promises at any cost.
The girl's beauty was famed throughout the land. Her immortal sleeves drifted in the breeze, as if she danced in a gown of rainbow feathers.
Her brows gently furrowed, her sleeves danced through the years, praised throughout the land.
Her songs and graceful dances filled the air with strings and bamboo flutes; the emperor could watch her all day and never tire.
Three thousand miles from her homeland, twenty years in the deep palace.
She came bearing hatred, each step a peril.
Above the high terrace, she spoke with bold conviction, directing the fate of the realm.
A faint smile and a slight frown became sharp blades, breaking through the enemy camp.
One sword dance stirred the four corners of the land.
One backward glance and smile brought the world to its knees.
I still remember, in those younger days:
After we parted by the pond, wherever we had walked, the willows seemed jealous of your light skirt.
At that time, we held hands, strolling along a fragrant path amid drifting petals and willow fluff.
By the drooping willows on the purple road east of Luoyang, wherever we went among the blossoms, we were always hand in hand.
Partings and reunions are cruelly brief; this sorrow knows no end.
Amid national and family vengeance, what is worth choosing, and what matters most?
The western wind, a horse at the post station, the moon sinking beside a lonely lamp.
I have fought my way across three thousand miles; with one sword, I once faced a million soldiers.
Laughing at my own drifting fate.
Time has passed, the years have quietly changed.
The scenery seems just as it did yesterday.
In misty rain, we clasp hands and wander to the edge of the world.
Now, carried off by the wind, it has become drifting smoke.
A long hall of ten thousand swords pursues through the air.
What it pursues is the lost years; what it remembers is the strings of the brocade zither.
It only lasts two chapters in a few years, so it's really fast, and the story shouldn't be too protracted. Many novels are just flowery words without any real content, so don't fall into that whirlpool!!!!!