The light wind blows, and the purple bamboo sways.
This is a ruin, the soil charred black, as if it has endured thunder and fire, stained with blood.
Shi Hao stands here, motionless, his expression wooden, yet tears shimmer on his face, not yet dried.
"I actually cried." He softly murmurs, touching the tears on his face, still holding some warmth.
In that world, everyone he saw vanished, the bamboo grove remains, the Blue Sea has long dried, is this the Southern Sea's Purple Bamboo Grove of those days? Now, only simple purple bamboo remains.
They are neither tall nor thick, completely different from the scenes Shi Hao saw in his dream of the Immortal Ancient.
Is it a dream?
Yet, it feels so real, Shi Hao feels waves of heartache, those scenes still before his eyes, familiar friends falling one by one into pools of blood.
So bloody, like a dream, yet why does it hurt so much, witnessing friends he spent months with fall, that feeling is distressing and oppressive.
