The voice came from forty or fifty zhang away. By the time Liu Xiaolou and Yuan Huazi sensed that aura, the other party had already overheard their discussion—at least the last few lines. That meant the newcomer's cultivation was higher.
The two each retreated several steps. Liu Xiaolou moved to one side at an angle, while Yuan Huazi withdrew directly opposite the approaching person.
The moment the blue flower fell onto the page, the entire library seemed to hold its breath. The new line of writing glimmered faintly, like morning dew on the verge of dispersing, making the boy's fingertips burn. He stared blankly out the window. Deep in the night sky, the "Eighth Star of the Big Dipper" slowly turned, silver radiance spilling across the world like a silent answer.
"I'm ready."
As the words fell, the page trembled softly, and the petal transformed into a stream of flowing light that slipped into his pupils.
In an instant, memories surged backward like a tide flooding upstream.
He saw himself standing atop Wulong Mountain Peak, a rolling sea of clouds beneath his feet; saw Zhao Gui steering a boat through the waves while Lin Wanqiu unfurled a manuscript in the wind; saw Zhang Moyan remove her bone hearing aid, her lip movements striking the iron curtain like raindrops; and saw Shen Qingwu join hands with six others and walk into a sphere of light, their figures gradually melting into the river of stars... These scenes were not things he watched from afar, but things he had personally experienced. Every frame carried body warmth, heartbeats, and the salty tang of tears.
"You were not the first, and you will not be the last." The blind boy's voice rang in his mind, gentle yet heavy. "Every restart needs someone willing to remember."