Original God Zhongli BG Xiao Qinglong traveled through time

The gentle breeze of the Rongcai Festival seemed to permeate every inch of Inazuma's air with an exceptional softness. Even the sunlight lost its edge, filtering through the tall, narrow, mullioned windows of the Kamisato-yashiki library, slicing it into lazy beams of light that quietly cast a shadow on the dusty ancient books and dark wooden floor. Countless tiny particles of dust floated and danced silently within these beams of light, like golden mayflies.

Xingqiu hadn't come here deliberately to search for treasure. He was simply seeking some ancient charm for the painting "Aoi's Retreat" that Albedo would soon paint. The seal given by Manye lay securely in the brocade pouch he carried with him, a reassuring charm that allowed him to calmly navigate the silence filled with stale paper, ink, and the faint smell of mold.

His fingertips traced rows of book spines, some neat and some crooked. The titles, written in the ancient language of Inazuma, seemed like incomprehensible text to him. Until, his fingers accidentally hooked onto a volume tucked in too far inside, made of noticeably cruder material. With a slight push, a sheaf of unbound pages slipped out, scattering silently at his feet like dead leaves.

He leaned over and picked it up. The pages were yellowed and brittle, their edges worm-eaten, and the ink had dimmed with age. At first, he paid no attention, thinking it was just some ordinary student's poetry practice. His eyes casually scanned the handwriting, which was mostly a parody of popular styles or some whiny, witty repartee.

However, just as he was about to gather the loose pages and put them back, several lines of completely different handwriting suddenly caught his attention.

The handwriting was sloppy and unrestrained, as if carved with the last of his life's strength. Every stroke carried a sense of unwillingness and desperate struggle, digging deep into the paper fibers. Compared with the other neat but mediocre poems, these few lines were like a dying beast trapped in a small space, roaring silently.

Xingqiu's heart skipped a beat for no apparent reason. He carefully held the most worn pages and walked to the window, where, in the brightest light, he began to decipher each word.

"...Everyone praises my talent, but who knows my heart is like a boiling soup..."

"... Every word comes from my heart, but why... why... I stole the poetry of my predecessors!"

"I actually stole the poems of my predecessors"!

Those seven words, like seven red-hot steel needles, pierced Xingqiu's eyes and pierced his heart. He seemed to see through the twisted handwriting a noble scholar's heartbroken shock, the humiliation of having his faith completely crushed, upon discovering that his painstaking work had been accused of plagiarism.

His breathing quickened, his fingers turning slightly white from exertion, and he continued to look down:

"...without any means of defence, my reputation is completely ruined...all that I have relied on in my life has been shattered in one day..."

"...My body is like a dandelion drifting on the water, the wilderness is vast and desolate... I am abandoned..."

"I am left alone in the vast wilderness."

This last sentence, like a heavy evening drum, resounded in Xingqiu's chest. What a profound despair and desolation! Not only a physical exile, but also a complete spiritual abandonment. Banished from the civilized realm he loved and dedicated his talents to, he became a lonely soul in the vast wilderness, left to fend for himself, uncared for.

A surge of searing air instantly rushed to Xingqiu's throat. He suddenly closed his eyes, but a vivid image suddenly emerged before him: a thin scholar, ragged, wandering alone by the seashore or in the mountains, staring back at the brightly lit and flourishing Inazuma Castle. There, people were still singing and dancing, reciting poems that might have belonged to him. But he, a thief, had been completely erased, burdened with a false stigma, and coldly "abandoned" by his world.

"Unjust imprisonment... This is a... wrongful imprisonment in words!"

He practically gritted his teeth, squeezing out these few words. Those amber eyes, always filled with a lively smile, now ignited with a blazing fire, a pure, untainted fire of chivalry. The Second Young Master of the Feiyun Chamber of Commerce might weigh the pros and cons, but Mr. Zhenyu would never tolerate such an injustice that trampled upon the integrity of scholars and stifled a sincere soul, remaining buried in the dust of history!

He could no longer rest in the suffocating silence of the library. He carefully wrapped the few torn pages of poetry in a piece of clean rice paper, like a rare treasure, and tucked them away close to his chest. Without even taking the time to tidy up the bookshelf, which had become somewhat messy from his flipping through, he hurried out, practically running through the corridors, to find the person he most wanted to talk to and who he most believed would understand the heaviness of this situation.

He found Kaedehara Manye under the huge ancient tree in the courtyard, which was full of cloud-like crimson cherry blossoms.

Manye was leaning against a rough tree trunk, holding his beloved leaf in his arms. He wasn't playing, but rather, with his eyes closed, seemingly listening to the subtle rustle of the wind through the branches. The afternoon sun filtered through the petals, casting dappled, flickering spots of light on his white hair and red collar.

"Brother Manye!"

Xingqiu's voice, accompanied by rapid breathing, broke the tranquility of the courtyard.

Wan Ye opened his eyes upon hearing the voice, and saw Xingqiu's cheeks flushed from running, and his unusually bright, even sharp eyes. A hint of surprise flashed across his eyes, and then turned into a quiet inquiry.

"Brother Xingqiu, what's the rush?"

Xingqiu didn't answer immediately. He simply walked quickly to Wanye and took a deep breath, as if to calm his heart, which was beating violently with anger and excitement. Then, with great solemnity, almost holding his breath, he took out the wrapped manuscript from his arms and carefully spread it out on the outer layer of rice paper, presenting the fragments that carried centuries of injustice to Wanye.

"Look at this." His voice trembled slightly with emotion. "I found it by chance among the old papers in the library."

Manye's gaze fell on the scribbled, desperate handwriting. His expression at first was one of calm inquiry, but as his gaze swept across the lines of poetry, word by word, the depths of his lake-blue eyes seemed to be plunged into a deep pool of stones, sending out ripples that grew increasingly violent.

He read very slowly and carefully. When he read the words "I have secretly copied the poems of my predecessors," his brows knitted together in a barely perceptible frown; when he saw the words "the vast wilderness is abandoned," his fingers gripping the leaves tightened silently.

He didn't speak immediately. The air seemed frozen, with only the soft sound of cherry blossoms falling.

After a long pause, Wan Ye slowly raised his head and looked at Xingqiu. His eyes were no longer the usual indifferent expression of seeing through the world, but were instead filled with a complex, profound shock. This shock stemmed not from knowledge of a specific historical event, but from a resonance across time and space, a resonance at the level of the soul.

"..." He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end it turned into a very light sigh. This sigh contained too many things.

"I... can feel it." Manye's voice deepened, a rare hoarseness, steeped in a certain empathy. "Between these lines... the indefensible grief and indignation, and... the desolation that comes from being completely abandoned by everything you hold dear."

His gaze fell back on the manuscript, as if he could see through the thin paper the lonely and desperate back of the poet named "Red Man".

"Inazuma's poetry venerates elegance and pursues a 'mysterious' realm." Manyo's voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb the souls within. "For a poet who has devoted his entire life to this art, his greatest pride is his inherent talent and reputation. To be accused of being a 'thief'... is tantamount to completely destroying the very foundation of his existence."

He paused, then looked up at Xingqiu, his eyes gleaming with a profound understanding and pain that Xingqiu had never seen before.

"This has nothing to do with whether one is born into a noble family or is related by blood." He shook his head gently, his white hair moving slightly in the wind. "It's a feeling of... 'being in the same boat.' We have all... in some sense, been hurt and exiled by the culture and traditions we deeply cherish, or... by some supreme rule."

Manye's words were like a key, unlocking a deeper understanding beyond the rage within Xingqiu. He instantly understood that Manye's resonance at this moment wasn't because the "red man" might be related to the Fengyuan family, but because he read in the poem a reflection of his own wandering fate, the helplessness of the Fengyuan family at the mercy of a rigid system, and the shared, profound sorrow of being hurt by something one loves.

"I understand..." Xingqiu's voice deepened, his chivalrous fury fading into a firmer, heavier resolve. "This is an injustice, buried by time. We cannot... allow such a soul to forever languish in the wilderness, unjustified."

Wan Ye quietly observed the undeniable determination in Xingqiu's eyes. He slowly nodded. A faint, yet powerful smile slowly spread across his lips, like a spring breeze breaking through the ice.

"Teacher Zhenyu wishes to write a book to redress this 'literary injustice,'" his tone had returned to its usual calm, but with a touch of solemnity, as if standing shoulder to shoulder. "Manye... is willing to follow in his footsteps."

He stretched out his hand and gently brushed away a crimson cherry blossom petal that had fallen on the manuscript. His movements were gentle, as if he was soothing a soul that had been sleeping for hundreds of years.

"Let this timeless wail, through the writings and witnesses of our contemporaries... see the light of day again."

The sun was shining brightly, and a warm breeze blew through the courtyard, stirring up a crimson shower of flowers and ruffling the hair of two young men. They stood beneath a tree, one carrying a century of grievances in his arms, the other a resonance of a world away. Their eyes met, revealing an unspoken understanding and a determination to embark together on a journey to pursue the truth.

The dust of history is about to be blown away by a wisp of chivalrous spirit from a foreign country and a gust of local "Thousand Winds" that has experienced vicissitudes of life but is still clear.