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Severing Spring
Author: Shisilang
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Yichun woke up covered in blood and saw a full moon hanging in the sky, its clear light stretching for miles, so large that it seemed she could reach out and pluck it from the sky.
It was very cold; a bone-chilling cold seeped into every crack and wound in my body, making my blood feel like it was about to freeze.
She exhaled, and the white mist swirled upwards before dissipating in an instant.
A small boat swayed gently on the surface of the lake, where ice shards were scattered. Occasionally, the boat would collide with a block of ice, and the sound of the clattering echoed in the quiet night.
Yichun was a little slow to react; the lakeside was covered in snow, and towering mountains stretched out in the distance—it all seemed like a dream.
A chaotic dream in the heart of a snow-covered lake.
She should still be practicing martial arts on the golden platform covered with camellias, exchanging a few moves with Yang Shen. He lost a steamed bun and then reneged on the debt with a half-smile.
It's also possible that after going down the mountain with him, they spent the night in the forest and got bitten by mosquitoes, only to wake up and find that nothing had changed.
She's there, and she's doing well. He's there, and he's doing well too.
Faintly, I could hear the sound of strings being plucked, leisurely and carefree, like a casual breeze.
The sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument) sang, and a man sang along: "The jade palace is clean and dust-free, the precious moon is as round as a mirror. The wind stirs the green sleeves, and flowers fall in the quiet courtyard."
Hearing such beautiful singing in the quiet night makes one wonder if they have encountered a celestial being.
Yichun then strained to lift her head and saw a man leaning against the bow of the boat, holding a sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument) and singing a cappella.
He wore a silver-red jacket and a fluffy sable scarf around his neck, its color as beautiful as jade. At his feet was a small table with hot tea on it, the steam rising and filling the air with a fragrant aroma.
She stared blankly for a long time, then let out a hoarse voice: "...Shu Jun".
Shu Jun put down his sanxian, looked down at him, and seemed to have a thousand words to say, but in the end it all boiled down to one sentence: "You still have a life left."
She did not answer.
Shu Jun then tossed a handkerchief to her face and said softly, "Sleep a little longer."
Yichun obediently closed her eyes, the handkerchief covering her face—soft, light, and carrying an indescribable fragrance. But it quickly became soaked, a cold, stinging patch against her eyelids, like a freezing pain.
She dreamt of many, many people and many, many things, and her forehead felt like it was being squeezed and was throbbing.
Finally, everything became a blurry background, and from the depths of the white light, little bits of peach pink blossomed. That was the peach grove behind Jianlan Manor, where
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