After a pause, Qin Qianluo continued, "Let's go to the rocks by the Aegean Sea and listen to see if the harp is still playing and singing the legend of the Trojan War."
Let's see if Helen's smile truly lived up to the historical records, capable of setting sail with a thousand warships and causing the walls of Troy to crumble in the flames of war.
Go to the ruins of the Roman Colosseum and imagine the hands of the gladiators who once held their short swords.
Feel the tragic grandeur of their struggle for survival amidst cheers and shouts, and experience the complex interplay of civilization and barbarity.
Civilizations in this world should shine like stars; without any one of them, the night sky would not be as wonderful, and without any one of their stories, the world would lack a certain flavor.
After all, we've come this far, and we should see all the wonders of this world to make the most of this long journey.
The wind rustled through her clothes, creating a soft, whispering sound, like countless stories from a thousand years ago gently echoing each other.
There were the tolling bells of Xianyang Palace, the camel bells of Chang'an Street, the poets' chants, the heroes' shouts, the hammering of craftsmen, and the laughter of the common people.
The sounds of mud slabs from Mesopotamia, the grinding of stones from the pyramids, and the roar of the Aegean Sea... all mingled in the wind, accompanying her as she journeyed through that ever-changing time and space.
Heading towards the wonders hidden in the years, towards the Jiangnan region where Su Jinyun reunites, and towards a more distant and unknown place.
Xin Ziming's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, her fox-like eyes narrowed slightly, and a hint of understanding flashed in her amber pupils.
Even the pale pink downy hairs that weren't properly hidden behind her ears trembled slightly—given her thousand-year-long friendship with Qin Qianluo, she knew all too well her "can't stand regrets" temperament.
Back in the mortal world, when she saw a flower-selling girl being robbed of her copper coins by a wicked servant, she was able to secretly exchange her jade hairpin for silver coins and stuff them back into the tuck.
In the storybooks, scholars who miss their beloved can sigh to the moon for half the night, "If only I had chased after her back then."
Even when passing by broken walls and ruins, seeing wildflowers trampled under the base of the wall, they would bend down gently to lift them up and replant them in clean soil.
She truly immersed herself in those turbulent times, witnessing Yue Fei walking through the streets of Lin'an in shackles, the people weeping, and the fire of "Give me back my land" burning in his eyes.
Seeing Du Fu dragging his ailing body on the road to Qinzhou, carrying a letter to his wife and children in his arms, yet unable to even afford a hot pancake.
Seeing Li Qingzhao sitting in a dilapidated boat after crossing the Yangtze River to the south, gazing at the twilight over the river, swallowing her bold words of "to live as a hero" into a soft sigh of "how can a single word of sorrow suffice?"
She'll most likely reach out and fiddle with something, trying to mold those "could have been better" past events into the perfect version she desires.
Perhaps he wanted to send a message before Yue Fei went to prison, perhaps he wanted to send Du Fu a bag of grain, or even he wanted to hold Li Qingzhao's hand and tell her to stop shedding tears for her homeland.
She took half a step forward, her shoulder gently touching Qin Qianluo's arm, her tone less playful and more serious than before.
Even the nine fox tails that swayed behind it quietly tucked in, the white fur at the tips of the tails standing straight in the twilight, like snowflakes stiffened by the wind.
"Just watch from afar, and don't touch it." Her fingertips unconsciously twirled the ends of her silver hair, making a loose loop before letting go.
The ends of her hair brushed against the jade bracelet on her wrist, which was engraved with cloud patterns, making a soft "ding" sound, as if knocking on someone's mind.
Her gaze fell upon the distant mountains bathed in twilight, their silhouettes hazy, like a painting steeped in ink.
But her gaze seemed to pierce through the void before her, gazing upon the past that had long since settled.
The broken tiles of Xianyang Palace are half-buried in the desert sands of northern China, and the taotie patterns on the tile ends have been worn away.
A broken stele on Chang'an Avenue is stuck in the grass. The clerical script on the stele has been darkened by the rain, but the two characters "Kaiyuan" can still be vaguely made out.
The old bridge over the Bian River is now just a few bluestone slabs lying on the river surface, and the moss under the bridge arches is covered with traces of the canal boats that once sailed there.
They all lie quietly in time, sleeping with their own stories, undisturbed by anyone.
"Time moves forward like a rushing river," she said, her voice deepening, as if speaking to Qin Qianluo, or perhaps to the past.
"It originates from the melting snow of the Tanggula Mountains, collects the smoke from the cooking fires of the herdsmen when crossing Qinghai Lake, picks up the mud and sand on both banks when traversing the Loess Plateau, and detours around the reefs of the Longmen Grottoes."
When it hits the precipice at Hukou, it plunges into a waterfall, and its winding course has its own destiny.
You thought you were just casually plucking a leaf from the road to make the water flow more smoothly, but you forgot that the leaf might be sheltering a school of fish or a ferry for insects on the shore.
It got stuck in a crevice in the rocks, which might cause the water to be diverted, flooding the farmland that was supposed to be irrigated.
The fishing boats that were supposed to dock hit a reef, and those who rely on this area for their livelihood will be displaced.
You want to save Yue Fei, but if you disrupt the court, more loyal officials may be wronged.
You might want to help a Du Fu, but if you change his circumstances, perhaps those breathtaking verses in "The Three Officials and the Three Separations" will be lost.
You might want to advise Li Qingzhao, but if you erase her sorrow, perhaps the most moving aspect of the "graceful and restrained style of poetry" would be lost.
The wind carried her words past his ear, with an undeniable seriousness, like the admonishing tone of those ancient beings who have lived for tens of thousands of years in the heavens.
Her tone carried a deeper, more genuine worry, as if the air itself had become heavier, as if weighed down by the passage of time.
"Time and space are the most delicate things, even more difficult to care for than the Spirit Heart Fruit that ripens only once every thousand years—at least that fruit can be nourished by the spiritual spring of Yaochi."
Water it when it's dry, drain the silt when it's flooded, and you can always wait for it to mature.
But time and space cannot be touched or manipulated; even the slightest deviation could lead to unforeseen consequences thousands of years later.
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