On the way to the lakeshore in the distance, Zhao Rong encountered a fox-eyed maiden napping under the sun on a green stone, wrapped in a small quilt.
Beneath the green stone lay an open book of romance.
As Zhao Rong passed by, he squatted down to pick it up for her.
He vaguely saw many words like 'Zhao Lang Zhao Lang' on the book.
He smiled and helped the fox-eyed maiden who didn't love naps, didn't love romance books, and didn't love the bad Zhao Lang, by tucking the exposed tender white little feet back into the quilt.
On the way, Zhao Rong also saw a malevolent warrior drinking and gazing south, a tall Confucian Scholar playing the zither in a pavilion...
These vague and strange scenes, Zhao Rong followed the words of a certain Sword Spirit and regarded as a nighttime dream.
Then.
He didn't know how much time had passed, how many 'sceneries' Zhao Rong had calmly passed by with arms folded.
He stopped in front of a familiar high tower by the lakeside,
