Zhang Qi followed closely behind, and the moment he stepped out the door, he glanced back at the sea of fire—the once magnificent Luo Mansion now resembled a burning beast, roaring in agony amidst the thick smoke.
Cheng Muyun's steps did not falter at all. His black leather shoes touched the bluestone slabs in front of the door, picking up a few sparks that quickly went out.
He looked up at the horizon; the thick clouds seemed to press down, making it hard to breathe.
The morning light, like a sharp blade, struggled to break through the gaps in the thick clouds, pouring down and precisely enveloping Cheng Muyun's dust-covered yet still straight and upright back.
That silhouette seemed to bear immense weight, or like a sharp blade piercing through the darkness of chaos, carrying a sense of solitude and resilience, sketching a silent yet awe-inspiring silhouette between heaven and earth.
The fire brigade acted swiftly, arriving almost as soon as the fire broke out, but the Dongzhou army stood like a relentless barrier, blocking them from entering the Luo mansion.
The fire at Luo's mansion was like a demon possessing it, raging wildly. The fire was far more ferocious than that at Cheng's mansion. Crimson flames shot into the sky, twisting and surging arrogantly, almost completely swallowing the already weak sunlight of dawn and dyeing the entire sky a scorching blood color.
Cheng Muyun stood quietly outside the Luo mansion, like a lone hero confronting the raging fire, or a disillusioned person banished by fate.
His gaze was fixed on the image of flames licking at the Cheng Mansion, watching helplessly as his former residence was gradually burned into ruins. Every second of the burning felt like it was tearing his heart out.
He didn't know how much time had passed, until the Cheng Mansion was completely reduced to a charred ruin, before he slowly moved away.
Waves of heat surged around him, so hot they almost burned his skin, and hot tears welled up in his eyes.
At this moment, Cheng Muyun clearly realized that he had completely lost all avenues of retreat.
In the future, when people mention him again, those labels of "murder and arson" and "cold-blooded shooting" will follow him like a shadow.
His reputation as a "murderer" can no longer be bypassed or avoided; it will forever be nailed to the pillar of shame in his fate, becoming a heavy shackle he can never shake off in his entire life.
But who doesn't want to be a good person?
In the most subtle corner of his soul, Cheng Muyun had sketched out the image of a "good person" countless times.
That person should walk under the clear sky, their clothes fluttering in the wind, their eyes clear, and wherever they go, others will sincerely say, "Of upright character."
He also hoped to stand in the world with a clean conscience, like Xiao Wuxin, using justice and gentleness to create a bright and clear world for himself and those around him.
But fate is a savage beast, baring its fangs and claws as it pushes him toward the abyss of depravity.
The justice we uphold is like fine sand held in the palm of our hand; the tighter we clench it, the more it slips away.
The light we long to embrace is repeatedly crushed in the mire of reality, shattered into scattered fragments of light, never again able to coalesce into a torch illuminating the way forward.
Every step forward felt like treading on a thicket of thorns, causing him to grimace in pain, yet there was no escape.
The wheels of history rumble on and on, carrying with them wind and rain, and also carrying away countless people who have no control over their own destiny.
Cheng Muyun was nothing more than a tiny speck of dust in the tide, being pushed and battered, and even his struggle seemed so futile.
He tried desperately to bear the heavy burden imposed by fate, but the weight was too heavy, making his back ache and his knees tremble. Eventually, even the thought of persevering began to waver.
It's too difficult to be a good person. You have to be innocent at all times, and if you make a slight mistake in your words or deeds, you will be accused without cause.
Always be upright, because even if you give your heart to someone, you might still get stabbed in the back.
One should be gentle and compassionate in helping others, but people often cannot tolerate the slightest flaw. If one is not careful, their spittle can drown them.
He also attempted to stand on the moral high ground, wanting to live uprightly under the banner of justice.
But reality reached out a pair of capricious hands, pulling him down time and time again.
Slander was like a dark cloud looming overhead, and misunderstanding was like a sharp blade piercing his heart, tearing his persistence to shreds and leaving it to be trampled on in the mud.
Sometimes, it's not that you don't want to be a good person, it's that there are many shortcuts to being a bad person.
All it takes is bending over and closing your eyes—it's so simple it's heartbreaking, making perseverance seem like a joke.
Cheng Muyun held a sincere heart and roared "No!" to fate countless times, but those big hands were too ruthless. With a gentle squeeze, they crushed his resistance into dust.
Tears welled up in her eyes; she felt resentful, unwilling to be manipulated by fate, her perfectly good life turned into a mess.
Feeling wronged means feeling betrayed and having one's principles trampled on.
Even more despairing is the despair that no matter how much you struggle, you can't escape this dark vortex.
When he raised his hand to wipe away his tears, the heat made him shiver.
Then he turned and left, his steps heavy as if weighed down by lead, each step leaving a shallow crater in the ground.
This turn seemed to leave behind the naive, idealistic version of myself who was determined to be a "good person" in this ruin engulfed by fire.
The morning light that should have been warm in Xinhai City that day seemed to be soaked in bitter water, casting a gray haze over the eaves and streets of the entire city, making every inch of air permeated with an unyielding sorrow.
The wind swept in from the sea, carrying a salty, damp scent. It blew through the tightly closed windowpanes, its mournful sound like someone sobbing softly, weaving this sorrow into every corner of the city.
The vermilion gate of the Cheng Clan Ancestral Hall was wide open, and the copper bells on the eaves swayed weakly in the wind, unable to produce a single clear sound.
Cheng Muyun stood in front of the dark coffin, his plain white mourning clothes making his face look even paler, as if all his life had been drained away.
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