The rain, which had stopped for a day and a night, started again.
This is the weather in Yu'an. It is like this now, and it was like this more than ten years ago.
A dozen years is enough for a seedling to grow into a towering tree.
The armored general stood before the vast forest, his mount pacing restlessly. This was a battle-hardened warhorse, its sense of smell more acute than that of ordinary creatures, always able to discern the murderous intent hidden beneath the silence.
The general patted the black horse's mane gently to comfort it.
He also noticed the approaching enemy, but for some reason, he found it difficult to concentrate on the imminent battle and instead felt unusually distracted.
It must be because the land beneath his feet is soaked with the blood of his old friends, otherwise how could he suddenly recall the past that was once sunny and spotless in this drowsy darkness with continuous night rain?
When he was fifteen years old, because of the glorious past of the Xiao family, he dreamed every day of the days of fighting on the battlefield and making great achievements. He did not pay any attention to the happy and peaceful life in front of him.
At that time, he didn't know that a life numb by killing would be a curse that he could not escape for the rest of his life, and that the general's mansion, the warmest and most lively one on the entire Yukun Street, could only be relived in his dreams.
He rose at cockcrow to practice spearmanship, and after daybreak he joined his father and brothers in the cavalry camp for archery practice, returning home only after sunset. After dinner, he would study military tactics and military discipline. His mother, deeply concerned for him, enrolled him in the capital's academy, where the sons of princes and nobles studied, under the pretext that "military power should not be abandoned." After training, he would always find time to spend with the teachers.
His writing skills have always been inferior to those of his brother and sister-in-law, but he can still write a few poems.
But he didn't like writing poetry, always feeling that the rhetoric pulled from romantic stories was weak and fragile, completely contrary to what he wanted to do. Most of his friends at the time were the sons of his father's close friends, and their interests were all in wrestling, riding, and archery. In their spare time, they couldn't even enjoy horse racing or hunting, so how could they get together to write poetry?
In the height of summer, the academy was exceptionally hot, and the hours spent sitting and studying were unbearable. Sometimes, he would sneak out of the city with a few friends to ride horses and play in the clear stream on the outskirts of the city. Whenever this happened, he would beg his "inside" friends at the academy to help him deal with the teacher. After all, his two brothers, the Bai family, were excellent students, so even if the teacher fumed for a moment, the matter would eventually pass. In return, he would offer his two brothers the freshest seasonal river seafood from Que City. The outer wall of the academy and the back door of the Bai Mansion became the most frequent meeting places for the young men. If they made a mistake, they would take turns "taking the blame," and their expressions were stern as they were led to the teacher's study to receive a beating with a stick.
Dust on the training grounds, afternoon in the academy. Osmanthus flowers carrying wine, horses tied to the high tower.
His youth was like that, always longing for an extraordinary life, but quietly flowing through the ordinary.
The road he was going to take was the straight, calibrated avenue that ran between the military camp and the city gate. On both sides of the avenue were green lawns that covered the sky, and even if he glanced sideways, he could not see any other scenery. He should have continued walking on such a road.
However, he finally caught a glimpse of a different scenery, a spot of white in the rapidly receding scenery.
He remembered that it was the evening of late summer and early autumn. The clear blue sky was dyed golden by the setting sun. He and his friends were riding back from the school camp outside the city in groups of three or four. As soon as they entered Jiazi Street in the city, their way was blocked by the crowds of onlookers.
I don’t know how long it took, but a convoy slowly drove in from the end of the street, with red cars and green horses, and flowers paving the road.
He heard from passersby that the daughter of the Mei family was marrying Prince Xuanyuan in a grand ceremony, so less than half an hour ago, the entire Jiazi Street was filled with onlookers.
At that time, he was young and self-righteous, so he deliberately ignored the excitement and only complained to his comrades that he had taken the wrong road and was blocked on the road by the huge crowd.
The crowd was filled with excited chatter and exclamations. On the last of the ten carts of dowry sat a huge red-lacquered wooden chest. The chest contained no gold, silver, jewels, or silks, but rather a tree. A plum tree, laden with buds, ready to bloom.
His companion sighed, "That was the most precious dowry General Mei had given his beloved daughter. It was called the Reflecting Water Plum Tree, one of only three double-petaled, green-stamen plum trees left in the world." He frowned, staring at it for a long time, unable to discern the value of the branches, so withered and gnarled by age.
Then he saw her.
She was wearing simple, light-colored clothes, with her black hair tied up in a man's bun. Her profile outlined a bright silhouette in the golden light of the setting sun. Although it only showed half of her smile and joy, it was more complete and precious than any beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Everyone's eyes were on the plum tree, but his eyes were on the girl looking at the plum tree.
He was not aware of his own mood at that moment, but he felt that those romantic poems that he had previously despised suddenly had a tangible purpose at this moment.
That night he had a long dream. In the dream, they were holding hands, looking into each other's eyes and smiling.
He had never been exposed to such tenderness, so his imagination of tenderness was naturally very poor.
But he didn't feel it at that time. He often felt happy about those dreams and savored them for a long time. He even wrote down poems and cut the rice paper on which the poems were written and carefully hid them close to his body.
After all, he wanted to be a general. How could a general write love poems?
One day, on his way back to the city, he led his horse to drink water by the stream as usual. On a whim, he drew his bow and shot at the reeds on the shore. When he stood up, he suddenly found that the note he had hidden in his boot was missing.
His heart skipped a beat, but he remained calm. Perhaps he had fallen into some deserted corner of this place.
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