His innermost thoughts were revealed, and he ventured into a fictional dynasty with the system.

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.

Just like the little fox who accidentally crushed a seed of a Spirit Heart Fruit.

Who could have imagined that three hundred years later, the place that should have been growing Spirit Heart Fruit would instead be covered with a vine that could bewitch the mind?

Those things you feel sorry for or regret—like the pair of kneeling white iron statues in front of Yue Fei's tomb, which have been exposed to the cold wind for eight hundred years.

But it made people remember the weight of "serving the country with utmost loyalty".

For example, the hole in Du Fu's thatched hut that couldn't keep out the wind and rain leaked in not only rainwater, but also his compassion for the common people.

For example, the sorrow of "things are no longer the same, people are no longer the same" in Li Qingzhao's writings not only contains personal joys and sorrows, but also the vicissitudes of an era.

These are all obstacles that push life forward. Just like people have to stumble and fall a few times to grow up. Only after it hurts do they learn how to walk and how to avoid potholes.

The same is true of times; those regrets are scars, but also lessons, etched in history to remind future generations not to repeat the same mistakes.

If things really get out of hand, even the current breeze of freedom might not be able to blow steadily anymore.

Imagine if time and space were disrupted, the place we are standing here now might not be the void in the twilight, but a battlefield engulfed in war, or a desolate wasteland ravaged by floods.

Not to mention accompanying you to Jiangnan to find Su Jinyun's reincarnation, watching her read poetry by the window in Suzhou, and seeing the jasmine in full bloom on her desk.

She raised her hand and patted Qin Qianluo's shoulder, the force neither too light nor too heavy. The warmth of her palm passed through the white fabric of her clothes, as if reminding her, or as if comforting her.

The fox's eyes gleamed with the wisdom of someone who's been there, and even the beauty mark at the corner of its eye seemed to brighten. Its tone softened, as if it were whispering something.

"We are spectators, not writers who revise the script."

Think about it, when the opera troupe goes on stage and the gongs and drums start, all the actors, from male to female, from painted-face to clown, have to follow the script.

If you're going to sing "Outside the long pavilion, by the ancient road," you can't sing "The setting sun sinks in the west, a heartbroken traveler is at the ends of the earth."

When it's time to cry, you should wipe away your tears; when it's time to laugh, you should raise the corners of your mouth.

When it's time to leave the stage, even if the audience shouts "one more time!", you still have to take your bow and leave.

Even the best play must be performed according to the script; otherwise, the lines or plot will be altered.

For example, letting Liang Shanbo know in advance that Zhu Yingtai is a woman, and preventing Xu Xian from drinking that bowl of realgar wine.

The drums and gongs went off in a mess, and the erhu couldn't keep up with the rhythm either. How could the opera troupe continue performing?

The audience members below the stage either found it boring or were about to start cursing.

Those people in history also have their own destiny; the storms they are meant to weather, the consequences they are meant to bear, and the traces they are meant to leave behind are all predetermined.

Just like characters in a play, each has their own role.

Let's just watch and keep those regrets in our hearts and those touching moments in our eyes. Let's not disturb their cause and effect, nor disrupt the order of this world.

After all, isn't the most touching thing in this world the sight of someone carrying regrets yet still moving forward?

Hearing Xin Ziming's unusually serious words, Qin Qianlu nodded obediently, her eyes curving slightly at the corners.

When her long eyelashes droop down, they resemble two small fans, gently concealing the nonchalant smile in her eyes—a smile that hides a hint of cunning, like a child harboring a little secret.

Her fingertips subtly twirled the hem of her plain-colored dress, and even the curve of her clothes swaying in the wind conveyed a sense of carefree nonchalance, as if she hadn't listened.

She knew perfectly well that this dear friend, who had lived for a thousand years, was even more gentle than herself. Although he scolded her fiercely, he was the one who protected her the most in his heart.

Previously, when Heaven punished her with the Ninefold Thunder Tribulation, she was prepared to endure excruciating pain, but then she saw Xin Ziming take out her protective jade from her sleeve.

That jade was her token, capable of blocking the power of the Heavenly Dao. At the time, she cursed as she pressed the jade hard against her heart.

However, he was hit by the aftershocks of the lightning tribulation, and several tufts of hair behind his ears were singed.

They accidentally stumbled upon the territory of an old locust tree that had been cultivating for three hundred years. The tree demon, whose branches had been cut by a woodcutter, would pester anyone who came across it.

When she was bound by vines and unable to move, Xin Zimo waved her nine fox tails, the tips of which gleamed with gold.

While cursing and swearing, "I told you not to wander into the forest, but you wouldn't listen," he forcefully shattered the tree demon's century-old cultivation.

Afterwards, he had to transform into an old Taoist priest, leave the tree spirit a healing fruit, and coax it, "Don't bother people so casually next time."

Even the last time she saw a little beggar crying from hunger by the river, she couldn't help but take out a piece of silver from her sleeve and hand it to him.

The silver coin carried a touch of divine magic, which startled the local earth god. The earth god rushed over and questioned, "Who is abusing their magic in the mortal realm?"

Xin Ziming spoke up before her, patting her chest and saying, "It's my little fairy who's just entered the mortal realm and doesn't know the rules. Consider this silver as an apology to the Earth God for buying you a pot of wine."

That's how they managed to suppress the matter.