Huayu: From "Good Fortune Across the Sky" to becoming a top star

"Holy crap, there are so many people! Is Jiang Xun really that influential?"

"Jiang Xun has become even more handsome!"

"Why not broadcast live from the grasslands? Jiang Xun belongs to the grasslands and snow-capped mountains!"

"You illiterate idiot, you've made a mess of things."

"Honey, honey, I've booked the tickets to Xinlong, remember to pick me up! qwq!"

Once the host saw that most people had entered, he began today's topic.

"Welcome everyone to Jiang Xun's live stream. Today is also the official release day of 'Jiang Xun and Xinlong.' I believe many of you have already seen it. If you haven't, you can watch it together. The story of this short film was written by Jiang Xun's younger brother."

The comments section was buzzing.

"I've already read it, it's super good! Was it written by Jiang Xun?"

"Can't wait!"

"Are you kidding me? The locals have really gone mad, showering Jiang Xun with all sorts of accolades, practically creating a god."

"Jiang Xun and Xin Long" has begun airing.

The screen gradually brightened from black.

The camera slowly pans down towards the snow-capped mountains shrouded in morning mist.

A line of small text appeared at the bottom of the screen: SC Province, GZ State, Xinlong County.

The camera continues to pan forward, turning to Cuoka Lake.

The lake was as calm as a mirror, reflecting the snow-capped mountains.

Jiang Xun, dressed in red Tibetan clothing, led Xiao Hong to the lakeside.

He squatted down, bent over, scooped up a handful of lake water, and splashed it on his face.

The water in my hometown always feels exceptionally fresh, and the wind blowing across my face brings a light, refreshing coolness.

The sky was a deep blue, casting a golden glow on the snow-capped mountains.

The camera zoomed in, and Jiang Xun looked up at the sky, a slight smile playing on his lips, as tears slid down his cheeks.

The camera zooms in, and light pierces through the vast sky and the endless clouds, landing on this drop of water. Because of this beam of light, in this tiny moment, you can see: white snow, blue mountains, a calm lake, and red clothes, all blended into a single drop of water.

This seems to be the color of the entire Xinxiang at this very moment.

Jiang Xun's Tibetan narration began, his voice soft and reverent, accompanied by subtitles.

"I grew up here. As far back as I can remember, the mountains haven't changed, the lake hasn't changed, the water is still as fresh as ever, and the sky is still the same color. Here, time seems to move very, very slowly..."

The scene changes.

Jiang Xun rode his horse over the grassy slope, his Tibetan robe billowing in the wind. The wind howled, but it couldn't move the young man's figure overlooking the mountain peaks.

He took a deep breath, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

He stood on the mountaintop, gazing into the distance, his whole being bathed in the sun's embrace, seemingly merging with the surrounding peaks.

The narrator continued, "Sometimes I feel like I was born to stay here forever. Herding cattle, riding horses, watching snow-capped mountains. This is my whole world. I've never thought about anything else, nor have I imagined any other scenery."

The scene then flashes across the landscape and cultural sites of my hometown: mountains stretching as far as the eye can see, a calm lake, a clear blue sky, cattle herders, and memories of myself riding a horse.

The final shot returns to Jiang Xun, who looks directly at the camera, his eyes overflowing with longing and affection for his hometown, as well as a strange sense of anticipation.

The screen went black, then switched to Xiaotian, who was sitting on a bus. The city outside the window gradually disappeared, turning from smooth avenues into increasingly narrow lanes.

The traffic that had been accompanying us outside quickly transformed into mountains and grasslands.

The car ride changed from smooth to bumpy on the dirt road, and the bus had a sign that read "Ganzi-Xinlong" on the front.

Xiaotian, wearing headphones, leaned against the car window, looking out.

The car turned a corner, and the previously dark car window suddenly became bright, just enough to illuminate a tear in Xiaotian's eye. The tear rolled down her face and landed on the edge of the car window in the new light.

However, unlike the sunlight that seemed to foreshadow something, her narration began at this moment, her voice clear and crisp, yet tinged with sadness: "That year in Xinlong, I buried a little flower that belonged to love. At that time, there was a legend circulating here that once a flower that bestows true love is buried, it will never wither."

The car stopped quickly.

The scene transitions the moment Oda lands.

Her everyday clothes had changed to a blue Tibetan robe, and she was wearing Tibetan earrings.

The place where she got off the bus became Pichagou.

The river, gently embraced by the lush forest, shimmers with an emerald luster as it flows over the jagged boulders.

Xiaotian walked along the gravel path by the riverbank, his hands behind his back. Each gravel seemed to have been placed there, like a fragment of a memory. Experiences were piled up in a river of memories. Events would remain in the past, but the river carrying memories would always flow.

The leader sitting in the middle watched with great interest and couldn't help but remark, "I often go to Pichagou, and it's most beautiful in autumn. But you guys did a great job with the photos."

The host chuckled and added, "Pichagou is incredibly beautiful, one of the most stunning places in Xinlong. When you visit Xinlong, don't forget to check it out! You might even bump into Jiang Xun!"

The camera then shifts to the Larima Grassland.

Green grass stretches to the horizon, wildflowers dot the landscape, and horses gallop under the blue sky and white clouds.

Xiao Tian stood on the grassland, opened his arms, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

The wind not only stirred her black hair, but also lifted the corners of her mouth and the hem of her Tibetan robe.

A long-lost smile appeared on her face. The scene brightened up at that moment, just like the change in the protagonist's state of mind.

A voiceover begins: "At the moment we broke up, I returned to Xinlong. Sure enough, I saw that flower that had long since withered."

The scene shifts, and Xiaotian is riding a horse, arms outstretched, laughing as he faces the wind.

The camera finally focuses on the bonfire party.

The firelight illuminated everyone's faces.

Jiang Xun sat in the center of the campfire, holding a dragon-headed zither in his arms, the sound of which was desolate and melodious.

People gathered in a circle, singing and dancing, their Tibetan robe sleeves fluttering in the firelight.

Xiao Tian sat by the fire, resting her chin on her hand, quietly watching Jiang Xun with gentle eyes.

The flames crackled, and the singing was carried long and drawn out by the evening breeze.

The night was dark, and the firelight could not illuminate everyone's thoughts, but it could gather everyone here.

At least in the warmth of this firelight, you can feel a different kind of gentleness.

The narration played for the last time, Oda's voice resolute, tinged with a sense of ease: "Today, I want to say goodbye to the past properly. The flowers of the past will wither, but new flowers will bloom again. The fresh breeze blows, the light shines in all directions, and they will bloom even more beautifully."

Finally, the scene brightens, and Jiang Xun stands atop a snow-capped mountain, scattering the Ronda in his hand into the sky.

The colorful Ronda paper flutters against the pure white background, like the only color in the world.

Meanwhile, on the other mountaintop, Oda also threw the Ronda in his hand into the air.

The Ronda on both sides floated in front of their respective people. Xiaotian and Jiangxun looked at each other from afar, and thousands of stars seemed to flow between their eyes on both sides of the valley.

Just like a scene from a comic book, all that's missing now is a falling meteor.

The Longda Paper drifted away, carried away by the gentle morning breeze to an unknown destination.