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

Neither of them glanced at Xin Ziming out of the corner of their eyes, as if the fox standing to the side with its tail almost snapped off was just a wisp of air breathing.

Qin Qianluo even let out a soft sigh, her tone tinged with satisfaction: "The peach blossoms in Chang'an are indeed more vibrant than those elsewhere."

Su Jinyun nodded in agreement, adding, "The Longjing tea from Bianjing is also more mellow than that from Jiangnan."

This nonchalant, carefree demeanor was like adding dried pine needles to Xin Ziming's anger, causing it to burn even brighter with a "boom".

Even her fingertips were trembling slightly, and the nine fox tails behind her were taut and straight.

The white hairs at the tip of her tail stood up like a row of tiny silver needles, and even the surrounding air seemed to be heated by her anger.

Fortunately, the two of them still had some sense of propriety and didn't completely forget about her, their "dedicated aftermath specialist."

Just before stepping into the cycle of reincarnation, Su Jinyun suddenly turned around and took out a booklet with a blue cloth cover from her sleeve—the cloth was made of coarse linen from Jiangnan, and the edges were a bit rough.

The edge was sewn with a circle of light blue silk thread, which was obviously done by Qin Qianluo when she had nothing to do, using the leftover thread from embroidering lotus flowers.

The cover features a crooked lotus drawn with gold powder, the petals of which are all different sizes. The petal on the left is half a finger wider than the one on the right, and there is a small black dot in the center of the flower.

It looks like a little insect crawling on it, clearly the work of Su Jinyun and Qin Qianluo, who were messing around and tinkering when the two of them were taking a break in the gap of time and space.

She smiled and handed it to Xin Ziming, her voice soft and sweet, with a hint of ingratiation at the end, like a little fox rubbing against someone's palm.

"Zimo, these are some bits and pieces we jotted down along the way. They're a bit messy... but maybe they can save you some trouble, so you don't have to go around looking for us to see what trouble we've gotten ourselves into."

Xin Ziming took it while holding her breath. The moment her fingertips touched the rough hemp paper, her suppressed curiosity couldn't help but surface.

She wanted to see what "useful" things these two troublemakers could remember.

She flipped the first page with a "whoosh." The edges of the page were curled up, as if it had been soaked in water and then dried. There were crooked characters written on it with a brush.

The ink varied in shade, indicating that the two people were taking turns writing with different pens, and they also drew some strange little pictures.

The first line reads, "In a tavern in the West Market of Chang'an, a Hu woman was taught to sing half of 'Jasmine Flower,' and the musicians went crazy for three days while holding the score."

It says, "This music should only exist in heaven, and the score in the mortal world cannot be fully recorded." Next to it is a drawing of a grinning little man with hair sticking up like a bird's nest, and next to him is a red pen mark that reads "Musician Zhang".

The second line reads, "A painted boat on the Bian River in Bianjing lost a piece of glass mirror (which Qianluo took from the Divine Beast Space)."

The owner thought it was a divine object and wanted to set up an incense table for worship, and even invited a Taoist priest to perform rituals.

I drew a round mirror, with a small arrow next to it, and wrote in blue pen, "Zi Mo, the mirror is in a wooden box under the east window on the second floor of the painted boat."

Xin Ziming's eyes twitched as she read the bottom line, and even her temples throbbed.

"At a tea party in Suzhou, Jiangnan, the storyteller recited the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, adding the line, 'When Zhuge Liang borrowed the east wind, he also grilled a skewer of chicken wings and sprinkled chili powder on them.'"

The gentlemen listening to the story argued for half a month, some saying "chicken wings should be roasted", some saying "they should be boiled into soup", and others saying "how could the prime minister eat spicy food?"

Next to it was a little figure holding a string of skewers, with the words "Qianluo's idea" written next to it, and an X drawn on it, as if Su Jinyun had secretly marked it as the "culprit".

The booklet contained no "help" suggestions whatsoever; it was clearly a list of messes the two of them had created in the gaps of time and space!

Xin Zimo's face flushed bright red after reading only three lines, the redness spreading from her ears all the way down to her neck, even the downy hair behind her ears turned pink.

She could almost see herself carrying the spiritual fruit to a tavern in Chang'an, squatting outside the musician's room and weaving the lie that "celestial music entered my dream, and I can't remember everything; it was all fate."

He planned to sneak into a pleasure boat in Bianjing at midnight, avoid the night watchmen, and steal the glass mirror from the wooden box.

They also had to leave a note for the owner of the pleasure boat that read, "May the celestial mirror return to its rightful place, and may blessings be everlasting."

They also had to carry two jin of pre-Qingming Longjing tea to a teahouse in Jiangnan, apologizing to the storyteller with a forced smile.

Tell him to delete the "roasted chicken wings" part from the storybook and then make up a story that "the gentleman was talking in his sleep yesterday and remembered the plot wrong" to fool the audience...

In the end, she had to clean up all the messes and clean up the messes, without even having time to catch her breath.

The newly added chores were piled up higher than the Cloud Steps Mountain beside the Path of Reincarnation. Xin Zimo was so angry that her hands were trembling and her knuckles were white from clenching them.

Her fingertips had left several marks on the rough paper pages, and she wished she could throw the booklet back into their arms immediately and let them clean it up themselves.

But when I looked up, I saw that the two culprits had already stepped through the gate of reincarnation and transformed into infants crying for milk in swaddling clothes.

The baby Qin Qianluo was exquisitely beautiful, with her little face scrunched up and a few strands of baby hair still clinging to her forehead.

It was kicking its little legs, humming and whimpering, its chubby little feet splashing milk with each kick.

Su Jinyun transformed into a baby with her eyes closed, her eyelashes like two small fans, long and thick, and a little milk foam still hanging from the corner of her mouth.

They looked extremely well-behaved, as if they hadn't participated in those "pranks" at all.

We can't really argue with two babies who can't even babble.

Xin Ziming sighed heavily, too exhausted to even muster the energy to be angry, and could only resignedly tuck the booklet into her sleeve.

His fingertips traced the crooked lotus flower on the cover, and the anger in his eyes slowly turned into a helpless smile, even the white hairs at the tip of his tail drooped down.

She had to rush to the taverns in Chang'an to appease the musicians, to the painted boats in Bianjing to retrieve the mirrors, and to the teahouses in Jiangnan to apologize to the storytellers.

There wasn't a moment's leisure, not even a moment to drink some spiritual spring water and rest.

She could only silently vow to herself, "If they cause trouble again, I will absolutely not care about them," but she knew in her heart that this was just self-deception.

Time flies, and modern life is bustling with traffic.

In the concrete jungle, traces of the past are hidden deep in the streets and alleys. The sycamore leaves turn green and yellow, yellow and green again, through countless seasons.

The sounds of cars on the asphalt road and music from the shops blend together, yet there are always some corners that retain a touch of the slow pace of a thousand years ago.

At the end of an old alley in the city, a teahouse called "Listening to the Wind" is hidden in the shade of plane trees, with black tiles and white walls.

The wall was covered with lush green ivy, which completely obscured the corners, leaving only the mottled brick patterns visible, much like the ancient alley they had once walked through.

A string of bronze wind chimes hangs on the upturned eaves. Qin Qianluo "picked them up" from the ruins of an ancient temple from the Ming Dynasty. They jingle when the wind blows.

The crisp sound, mixed with the rich aroma of tea, wafted out of the alleyway, attracting frequent glances from passersby—many said that the tea at this teahouse tasted especially warm.

It felt like carrying a warm stove, but in reality, Qin Qianluo had secretly added some spiritual spring water from her divine beast space to the tea, fearing that modern tea wasn't "nourishing" enough.

Inside the private room, dappled sunlight filtered through the carved window lattices, casting mottled light and shadow on the mahogany tea table, like light spots reflected from fragments of time and space.

The celadon tea set gleamed with a warm luster, and the teacup was engraved with a lotus scroll pattern. It was an old item that Su Jinyun had found at the site of a porcelain kiln from the Southern Song Dynasty.

Although there are some minor ice cracks, they make it even more elegant.

As the Biluochun tea leaves slowly unfurled under the boiling water, their tender green hues floating and sinking in the cup, much like the pre-rain tea they had seen at tea gatherings in Jiangnan.

The aroma of tea wafted up the windowpanes, spreading a hazy green mist that enveloped the entire private room in a refreshing atmosphere.

Four women sat around a tea table, each with their own unique charm, chatting and laughing.

A woman leaned languidly against another woman's chest, her head resting on the other woman's shoulder, her nose brushing against the faint fragrance of her neck.

It smelled like freshly brewed jasmine tea, light and delicate, just her favorite flavor.

She toyed with a small jade mask between her fingers. The edges of the mask were polished smooth and warm, and it felt cool against her fingertips.

There wasn't a trace of any straps; it looked as if it had been naturally attached to the face and wouldn't fall off no matter how much you shook it.

She looked up at the woman opposite her, dressed in plain clothes, her aura as cool and serene as moonlight. The woman was holding a teacup and sipping it slowly, her fingertips holding the teacup with elegance.

With his thumb gently resting on the rim of the cup, even the way he drank tea exuded an ethereal quality, as if he were untouched by worldly concerns.

The woman's eyes curved at the corners, her smile hiding a hint of cunning, and her voice carried a lazy tone, like a cat that had stolen some fish.

"Would you do me the honor? Teach me how you manage to stick that mask on your face so firmly, without any strings or straps, it's more secure than super glue?"

Upon hearing this, the woman, whose aura was as serene as moonlight, trembled violently with her fingers holding the celadon teacup, and the crackled patterns beneath her fingertips seemed to move as well.

The emerald green tea rippled in the cup, swirling along the rim and almost overflowing the delicate lotus scroll pattern.

She simply placed the teacup on the rosewood tea table, and the soft "clang" broke the momentary silence.

When she looked up, the frost in her eyes had melted into a hint of helplessness, mixed with the embarrassment of having her thoughts exposed.

She glared at the woman who was nestled in another woman's arms, her eyes crinkling with laughter, and snatched the jade mask from her fingertips.

His fingertips traced the smooth, warm curves of the mask, his fingertips caressed the delicate patterns of the half-lotus design, and a fleeting smile crossed his eyes, mixed with an indescribable sense of longing.

This mask was originally carved by a craftsman she specially commissioned to conceal her identity. I don't know which antique street this girl found it in, but now it has become a reason for her to tease herself.

"You talk too much." She scolded lightly, but there was no real anger in her tone. The last syllable even had a slight softness, as if she was scolding or indulging.

Silvery laughter immediately filled the private room, the sounds mingling and hitting the carved window frames before gently falling back into the teacups.

The stirring infused the fragrant tea with a touch of sweetness, making the air feel warm and cozy.

A waiter passing by the private room heard the noise, paused, and shook his head helplessly—well, the bosses were reminiscing about the past again.

Every time we talk about those random, unrelated stories from the past, we always laugh so heartily.

She didn't stop walking and continued towards the bar, but when she turned around, a smile involuntarily appeared on her lips.

The laughter in this "Listening to the Wind" teahouse, lacking the hustle and bustle of the city, is more comforting than the lively atmosphere elsewhere.

It's like a cotton quilt that's been sun-dried in winter, so warm it makes your bones feel soft and fluffy.

End of full text

"This concludes the article. I express my sincere gratitude to all of you."

As a newcomer to writing, I am aware that my writing skills are still immature and my sentences may be somewhat clumsy. Fortunately, I have received your support and understanding along the way.

From the initial hesitant start to the successful conclusion, every bit of support and encouragement has become the foundation for my perseverance.

Currently, the side stories for this book are being organized, which will provide a proper home for those unresolved details and unfilled plot holes.

The outline of the new story is slowly unfolding on my desk, hoping to use a more mature writing style to depict a more vivid world.

In this vast sea of ​​people, it is truly my good fortune to meet you all through words.

My future creative journey will be filled with even greater reverence and dedication. Thank you again for everyone's support; may we meet again in the next story, just as we did at the beginning.