Volume 1·Yuanyu Qingyuan, young people like Pu
In the late spring of the Wuchen year, in Luohua Lane, Qingyuan Town, a three-day rain stopped with a cry of a baby.
Carpenter Shi Chongan named his son "Zhao". The sun and moon are in the sky, not to light up the world, but to make your heart clean and bright.
Shi Zhao grew up in such a small courtyard. The father pushed the planer, the mother collected the shoe soles, and the lights under the eaves were on every night. On the day he was arrested, among the table full of auspicious objects, he picked up the boxwood sword made by his father.
The world was in chaos, but all these fell into Shi Zhao's ears across the Qingyi River. They were just a few incomprehensible gossips in the teahouse.
Until the twelfth lunar month, my father went to Linshui Pier to do some work and agreed to return the next day.
The day after tomorrow, the day after tomorrow.
A wild child who was struggling to make a living on the pier climbed over the wall and entered the courtyard just to be reminded that "someone is watching your house." His name is Xu Hongxu. A bowl of radish stew and half a cold steamed bun, the two children held hands together.
A wordless iron sign with the sentence "Go west, to Wusu Mountain". Thirty miles on the mountain road, there is a ruined temple with missing words, an old monk sweeping up fallen leaves, a story about an evil dragon and an iron sword, and a three-inch long dark green bamboo joint.
Father didn't come back. What came back was only a toolbox and a wooden bird with burrs on its wings. The engraved knife has an empty socket.
Mother said, wait for spring.
The spring ice has melted. People fleeing from Fucheng brought news - a group of people carrying swords were heading southwest. The leader was a woman riding a green horse. When passing the checkpoint, they showed a black sign with a lotus on it.
People in the temple call her, senior sister.
The door has not been bolted, the road has not been closed, and the people have not returned yet.
Dan sword
