Dark clouds rolled like spilled ink, not yet veiling the mountains; white rain leapt like scattered pearls, tumbling into the boat.
Cloud-breath linked the river ahead and ridges behind; rain sounds swept through ten thousand valleys and forests.
Xiang Yuan truly had a gift for poetry. Not only did Lay Buddhist Bai Yue praise him to the skies, but Ji Muqing, who had come after hearing of it, was also utterly convinced by her martial uncle's literary brilliance.
Why was Ji Muqing here? How did she know Xiang Yuan had been reciting poetry to Lay Buddhist Bai Yue?
Lay Buddhist Bai Yue had only recently become a wife, radiant and dazzlingly beautiful, while Xiang Yuan wore a look of—well, having spent the entire night diligently studying Buddhist teachings, full of spirit and vigor.
Xiang Yuan: (ω`)
Ji Muqing was not blind. How could she fail to see—or guess—the change where one side had run dry while the other brimmed over?
Then, recalling how Xiang Yuan had tricked her into secluded cultivation, she was full of grievances. She insisted on hearing her martial uncle recite poetry, or else he could forget about reciting any to her master.
She was so angry that little pearls fell from her eyes.
Seeing this, Xiang Yuan hurriedly recited several poems as an apology.
With that thought, he went with the flow and wrote a diary in Purple Bamboo Grove for two months:
At the beginning of the month, toured mountains and waters.
In the middle of the month, toured mountains and waters.
At the end of the month, Xiang Yuan, oh Xiang Yuan, those obsessed with female beauty cannot cultivate their own wisdom. How many people have lost nations, ruined families, and met violent deaths because they were lost in female beauty? Don't tell me