Refuse to trample on the pride of heaven

Lu Wensheng's consciousness became scattered and blurred in the endless fall, as if he had sunk into a chaotic abyss with no light, no sound, and no end.

The passage of time has lost its meaning, the direction of space has been completely annihilated, and only the feeling of weightlessness, like an eternal curse, entangles every thought.

Just when the boundless darkness and nothingness were about to completely swallow him up, a fragment of light and shadow suddenly exploded before his eyes.

He saw it—it was his father, mother, and sister.

The scene was a little hazy, as if viewed through a layer of old, vapor-covered glass.

The furnishings in the house seem to have changed, yet they also seem to have remained the same.

My parents' temples were more frosty, but the worry between their brows seemed to have eased a little. Their business was doing well and they could maintain a decent life with enough food and clothing.

My sister was wearing a neat uniform, as if she had got a stable job. Her face had lost its youthfulness and became more capable.

They sat around the table eating and occasionally chatting, with a faint, ordinary calmness on their faces.

However, when my mother was picking up some food, her eyes would inadvertently glance out the window, across an empty seat, revealing a trace of sadness that she had not yet been able to hide, with a sense of loss; when my father lowered his head to drink tea, his sigh was barely audible; and when my sister was asleep in the dead of night, she would stare at the otherworldly bright moon outside the window for a long time in a trance.

They live... "well", but beneath this "well" is a void that is deliberately ignored and can never be filled.

They had lost him, and were continuing their lives without him in a world to which he could never return.

This scene receded like the tide, and was followed by a more turbulent and cruel scene sweeping in -

His sight was suddenly pulled away, and the warm colors in front of him were instantly covered by the blood-red and gray.

He saw the mountains and rivers of the mortal world collapsing, thousands of miles of barren land, and starving people everywhere.

The fields and paths of the past have been turned into scorched earth, and the city walls and towers have become broken walls and ruins.

The common people, those faceless creatures, are as fragile as a candle in the wind in the face of the oncoming catastrophe, and even their struggle seems futile.

Like an ant run over by an invisible wheel, with numb eyes, they struggled to survive in the cracks between war and harsh rule. In the end, they didn't even have time to utter a wail before their flesh and blood bodies were ruthlessly crushed, and their bones were mixed in the mud, with no one to collect them.

Their blood and bones, red and green, seemed to have been grabbed by an invisible giant hand and ground into the thickest ink. The world used the blood and bones of all living beings as ink, and the mountains and rivers as scrolls. The ink was dark, connecting the old traces. With one stroke, it seemed to have written away the cruelty and sadness of thousands of years of wind and frost.

A noble man stands beneath a precarious wall, ready to sacrifice his unwavering will for the crumbling state, his body shrouded in lament, his sleeves stained with blood. What ultimately falls is not a coffin forged with a literary spirit and proud character? The coffin is covered not with ordinary dust but with the perpetually icy snow that never melts on the pine peaks beneath the moon, reflecting unfulfilled ambition and a bone-chilling cold.

The dynasty's mighty edifice is about to collapse, its beams and pillars rotten.

Those princes and ministers who sit high in the temple are still wearing golden robes woven with lies and greed, hanging on the dangerous beams, pretending to be peaceful and sound.

But his heart had already turned black, like a gorgeous ornament hanging on a decaying beam, swaying in the wind, pretending to be calm.

The century-long strategy and management of the dynasty, the painstaking efforts of countless generations, in the torrent of destruction, their fate was as thin as a piece of straw paper, and they were torn and burned in an instant.

"The water that capsized the boat is the tears of mankind. You won't know until you cross the river."

He seemed to hear a sad voice singing in the dark.

He saw the demon army overwhelming, and the once beautiful world of cultivation turned into a Shura purgatory.

Flames burned the sky, murderous roars filled the ears, sacred mountains collapsed, blessed lands were covered in dust, fellow believers killed each other, and people's hearts turned away. Only suspicion and despair grew and spread among the broken walls and ruins.

How many monks, as tiny as mayflies, carried their tiny hopes and burning hearts, but ultimately died for the bone-chilling coldness and seemingly irreversible decline of the world.

Familiar faces emerged in the blur of light and shadow—Ji Yanli, Liu Jiqian, Song Wen, Yan Qingshu, Qin Xiao, Yan Zhaoming…

Their faces were stained with blood, their eyes were filled with pain and sorrow, as well as an indescribable sadness that seemed to penetrate the boundaries of time and space. They stared at him deeply, as if calling him silently, or bidding a final farewell, as if to imprint their final expectations and instructions into the depths of his soul.

My ears started to become noisy, with many voices pouring in.

It should have been strange, but it stirred up extremely familiar ripples deep in the soul, as if coming from the source of blood, from the eternal call.

There was an old and kind voice, like the warm sunshine in winter, flowing slowly: "Child, don't be afraid..."

A clear and resolute voice, like a sword unsheathed, cut through the fog: "Descendants, move forward, always move forward..."

Fragments of consciousness continued to swirl, and he seemed to have caught a glimpse of some amazingly talented figures in the longer river of time. They formed the solid foundation for the people of this world to breathe and for the continuation of civilization.

In this torrent of consciousness, he seemed to be led by an invisible hand, glimpsing scenes of a magnificent life that did not belong to him but was closely related to him:

He saw someone with a nature as cold as ice and a heart as pure as glass. He was not like the gods and Buddhas who sat high in the clouds and enjoyed incense, but was willing to refine all his Taoist fruits and splendor into a "sword spirit" to protect the world.

Standing on the top of an unknown mountain, behind him is the beautiful mountains and rivers with eternal spring and endless life, but he himself is as lonely as an ancient solitary peak. Only the sword will soars into the sky, across heaven and earth, and protects the world below.

He saw someone who liked to be free and easy, and often stayed in cold mountains, keeping company with pine trees and cranes, and drinking with the bright moon.

One night, the moonlight filled his clothes and the silver light spread over thousands of mountains. He sat alone on the top of the mountain, taking pleasure in settling scores, his mind as broad and open as the distant mountains and rivers.

Suddenly, he heard that a monster was wreaking havoc in the distance and causing trouble for the village. The man threw his wine bowl down the cliff and laughed, "It's just right for drinking!" Then he drew his sword and went down the mountain. The sword flashed like a dragon and killed all the monsters. When he returned, his clothes fluttered, and he only carried a body covered in wind and dew and a pot of newly brewed monster blood wine as a farewell wine.

He also saw an ascetic monk, dressed in tattered clothes, with a haggard face, but with a pair of eyes as clear as a child's.

He sought immortality and longed for longevity, but he could never forget the suffering of the people.

When catastrophe was approaching and the earth's veins collapsed, he resolutely burned all his life's cultivation and lifespan when all living beings were in despair. He cut through the thousand-mile mountain range with a sword and used his supreme magic power to forcibly activate the underground spiritual veins, creating a "White Jade Capital" hanging in the sky and illuminating the world.

That sword overturned the history of Spring and Autumn, and his own foundation of Taoism was completely destroyed. He sat down and died in dejection under the immortal platform he built with his own hands, leaving only a wisp of immortal heroic spirit to guard this land.

He also saw someone who was elegant and refined, who liked to lean on the railing on a moonlit night, raising a glass to invite heaven and earth to come.

As they drank and sang, it seemed as if even the biting cold wind had subsided, the heavy snow had stopped, and the frost covering the earth had quietly dissipated.

His heart is filled with the spring vitality of the world, and he prays for the world to be perfect and complete.

He laughed loudly and said, "The world is full of vitality and happiness. Half of it is spring, and half is mine!"

I saw someone again, tuning the zither with his bare hands, mastering the five tones. He would often feel a sense of disaster when it was about to come, and would sit alone on the top of a dangerous city, burning incense and playing the zither.

The sound of the piano was like a flowing spring at first, cleansing people's hearts, and then it turned into golden swords and iron horses, and the sound of killing went straight to the sky. It was able to use invisible sound waves to lay a net of heaven and earth, lock the magic cave of the earth veins, prevent thousands of monsters from coming out, and protect this corner of peace for a hundred years.

However, due to exhaustion of his mind, his black hair turned white, but the lingering sound of the music remained on the strings of his zither.

I also saw someone who came from the military and was once a general on the frontier. Later, he embarked on the path of Taoism, but he could not give up his iron-blooded heart.

He built a strong pass at the weakest point in the boundary barrier and led his disciples and Taoist soldiers to guard it all year round.

On every full-moon night, when the demonic energy is at its strongest, one would see him standing on the city wall, armor-clad and spear-wielding, with battle flags fluttering behind him, confronting the demonic shadows in the sky. He was like an iron wall that would never collapse, keeping the bloody storm firmly outside the city.

The armor was already soaked with dark red blood stains, making it impossible to tell whether it was the demon or himself.

I have also seen people who came from humble backgrounds but were devoted to education, wandering around the wild and remote borderlands, enlightening the ignorant, teaching them how to make a living, and introducing the correct Dharma.

Although his own cultivation was not at the highest level, he single-handedly ignited the spark of civilization in countless wild lands, enabling the people to know etiquette, morality, and shame, and to continue to reproduce in harsh environments.

Its merits are invisible, but they benefit future generations, just like the spring breeze that moistens everything silently.

I have also heard of people who play around in the world and seem to be unrestrained, but in fact they have great ambitions.

He often uses the chessboard to deduce the general situation of the world, and where he places his pieces, he often inadvertently resolves many potential disasters and conflicts between the world of cultivation and the mortal world.

It seems that he is drunkenly lying in the clouds, watching the clouds roll and unfold with a smile, but in fact, the fate of the mountains and rivers is determined by the touch of his fingertips.

There is a great scholar who has devoted his whole life to studying the classics. He protected a torn book in the midst of war and led the young children to recite the works of sages. His voice was hoarse but could pierce the clouds and split the rocks. He was willing to use the literary spirit in his heart to ignite the spark of civilization inheritance. Even though he was imprisoned, his spine never bent at all, and between his brows was the stubborn light of "carrying on the lost knowledge of the sages."

There are ascetic monks in black robes and straw sandals, who measure the devastated land on foot, stop at the scattered corpses, put their hands together and recite the mantra for rebirth. Although the Buddha's light is faint, it persists in saving every resentful soul, and practices the great vow of "I will not become a Buddha until hell is empty" with their flesh and blood, with compassionate and peaceful faces.

There was a master painter who lived in seclusion in the mountains. When his country was destroyed, he threw down his brush in anger, used blood as ink and his soul as a brush, and painted a picture scroll of broken mountains and rivers for thousands of miles. Every stroke in the picture was a silent cry, and every stain of blood was a tearful accusation, engraving the national hatred, family feuds, and national integrity forever in this small space. The scroll was completed, and the spiritual light soared into the sky, becoming immortal.

……

These figures, some of whom he had heard of before, some of whom were completely unfamiliar to him, had very different personalities and different ways of thinking. Some were flamboyant, some were reserved, some were compassionate, some were unrestrained, some were famous in the world, and some were unknown... They passed through his heart like a kaleidoscope.

They are not perfect, and each has their own persistence, regrets and even sorrow.

However, it is precisely these thousands of different faces, thousands of different choices, and thousands of different paths that together outline a magnificent picture in which majestic spirit fills the sky and unyielding character supports the heaven and the earth.

They are like scattered stars, although their light may be bright or dim, they together constitute the unyielding backbone of the human race and the solid foundation for all living beings in this world to breathe, reproduce and inherit.

They are the gold flakes shining in the dust of history and the unsinkable boats in the long river of time.

The sea of ​​humanity rises and falls, the vicissitudes of life pass through the ages, but in just a moment, the winds and clouds surge, and heroes emerge.

In the end, those thousands and thousands of voices, coming from different times, different regions, and different identities, crossed the endless barriers of time and space, overcame all language barriers, and resounded in the depths of his soul like hundreds of rivers returning to the sea and all streams converging into a sentence that spans ancient and modern times, simple yet heavier than a mountain.

Their voices were as majestic as the voice of heaven, yet as gentle as a mother's whisper: "I come for the common people."

Those five simple words seemed to contain the power to create the world. They exploded in his chaotic sea of ​​consciousness, dispelling his confusion and illuminating the way forward.

The sound was like a trickle at first, and then it merged into a river, surging and turbulent.

This voice was not made by one person, but the resonance of the wills of countless pioneers.

Then, an even more mysterious scene unfolded before his eyes: a tiny light, as small as a bean, stubbornly lit up in the boundless darkness. Then, this light ignited another nearby light, one, two, ten, a hundred...

The light was transmitted to each other and reflected each other, until finally thousands of lights shone together, dispelling the thick darkness and illuminating the way ahead, as bright as day!

From one lamp, spread to all the other lamps, until all the lamps are lit.

The light was warm and vast, not scorching or dazzling, but it had the power to soothe the soul and strengthen faith, gently wrapping and supporting Lu Wensheng's consciousness that was about to sink.

The feeling of falling suddenly disappeared, replaced by an indescribable sense of calmness and fullness.

It seemed as if countless spirits of ancient sages and heroes were standing side by side with him, conveying their will, their strength, and their deep love for this land into his heart through this brilliant light.

With a sudden start, Lu Wensheng broke free from the deep and chaotic illusion of consciousness and woke up suddenly.

He gasped for breath, as if he had just been pulled back to reality from the abyss of drowning.

There was a cold wetness on his cheek. He subconsciously raised his hand to touch it, and felt a clear wetness on his fingertips - it was tears. He didn't know when he was in tears.

Looking around, I saw faces filled with worry.

Those companions who resolutely jumped into the abyss with him are now surrounding him.

Everyone looked more or less disheveled, with torn robes, disheveled hair, and marks and stains from battle on their bodies. However, their eyes were still as bright as sparks, and the vigorous vitality and firm will beneath their skin were not at all obscured by the desperate situation before them.

Everything I just "saw" felt so real and clear as if I had experienced it myself.

He seemed to be not just a bystander, but in that brief moment, his soul was attached to those predecessors, following their perspective, walking again through the magnificent mountains and rivers they had guarded, and experiencing the glorious years for which they had fought and sacrificed.

The heavy weight called "the common people" weighed on his heart with unprecedented concreteness and depth, and was also integrated into his blood.

He experienced the common qualities of those predecessors - a boundless love for the land and the creatures living on it that was deeply rooted in the soul.

Whether it is the determination to slay demons with a sword, the persistence to write books, or the grief and indignation painted in blood, the core of them is the persistent protection of the "common people".

What they guard are the smoke from the countryside during spring plowing and autumn harvest, the hustle and bustle of the streets and alleys, the sound of reading from the academy, and every glimmer of hope that allows civilization to be passed on.

The "common people" they see are of different colors, whether it is the green background of the vast mountains and rivers, the simple faces of the common people, or the bright light of the cultural heritage, but in the final analysis, they are all the beautiful and possible things in this world that are worth cherishing.

This experience was like a baptism of the soul, completely cleansing away the confusion and heaviness he had just felt after jumping into the abyss and facing the unknown.

Lu Wensheng wiped the tears from his face, and his brown eyes were now clear and transparent.