In this world, fate is ordained, and the rich and poor live separate lives.
The sons of poor families can study until their hair turns white without glimpsing a single page of the Dao. The weak, wronged and helpless, kneel in the rain, waiting for justice that never comes. The divide between immortals and mortals is a wall as deep as an abyss. Those above the wall hold the lives and deaths of all below in their hands.
Someone asked, "Has this wall ever been shaken?"
For ten thousand years, silence was the only answer.
Only one youth replied aloud: It shouldn't be this way.
What he wanted was a Great Dao that all could follow, without regard for status, and teachings passed on without regard for one's background. The poor should not have to sell their lives, and the weak should not have to kneel. Even those of dull talent should be able to stand tall between heaven and earth. The lights in every home should shine brightly on their own, without having to look up to anyone for favor.
The whole world refused to believe it, but he believed.
So he bore the Dao and walked on. People's hearts gradually gathered around him, and swords gradually pointed toward him. He took the world onto his shoulders and gathered power into one hand, until that hand slowly became one and the same as the hand he had once sought to overthrow.
The sun set over the wasteland, and a long blade pierced his chest.
He grasped his dear friend's sword and said with a smile:
"Do not hide my merits or faults, or dress up my virtues and flaws. My life was filled with love and hate, highs and lows, merits and crimes intertwined. Take up the vast brush of mountains and rivers and write my tumultuous tale."
The man stood with sword in hand and replied, "I am no good at ornate writing. But I witnessed your whole life with my own eyes. I will write it for you."
Embers fall into the abyss, yet may burn again.
But what if they burn everything away?
No System, no rebirth. See how one man who refuses to accept his fate walks a road from which he refuses to turn back.
Three years is not a long time. The pavilion was so crooked that it was difficult to sit down, the flames stood upright, and the pickles were so sour. In the past three years, Lu Yan spent 70% of his time not on this road, but on bamboo shoots, clouds, scripts and a table of home-cooked dishes. But it was these "useless" days that took root. Some growth is outward, climbing up one layer after another; some is inward, like bamboo, which is quietly rooted in the soil, waiting to break through the ground one day. When the bamboo turns green for the third time, its roots are already full.
Those who recover will feel gray in their hearts; those who recover will go to a distant place together. The father wrote the journey of his life into a book and handed it into his son's hand, but that hand held the cover and did not let go all night. It wasn't that he was reluctant to leave the book, but that he couldn't go out himself, so he had to entrust the matter of "going" to his son. Fortunately, Lu Yan understood. He understood the hand and the words his father didn't say: Finish the journey for me and take my share with you. There is always little talk between father and son. Love is half an inch under the lamp, and the remaining half will take a lifetime to read.
Three hearts, each sincere, went their separate ways at night. For the first time, he couldn't recognize himself - but not recognizing himself was the first page of a young man's growth.
I look at the bamboo forest and look out over the river. The relationship between master and disciple begins with the mountain that traps the master's footsteps. The mountains never leave people behind, it is the people themselves who stay in the mountains. The young man came, and so did the wind, blowing away the loneliness all over the mountain. From then on, there were people on the mountain, some were waiting, and some were returning.
At the beginning of the story, a young man with high spirits and high spirits has an unobstructed spring breeze that sweeps through thousands of miles of green fields, blowing over the lake and then breaking into a river of stars. Lu Yan walked all the way, his clothes rolled up like wings, and his brows and eyes were full of light that was not stained by dust - as if there was no door in the world that he couldn't knock, and there was no far place that he couldn't reach. Wherever the wind passed by, the grass and trees lowered their heads and raised their heads again, as if to greet him.
A group portrait essay in classical vernacular! Welcome everyone to read!