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Birds took flight, accompanied by the afterglow of the setting sun. The wide world was open, a place where all creations strive for freedom amidst the frosty heavens. The torrent of history, always vast like the earth and sky, rushed towards the end of time, never ceasing, never knowing its end. And heroes were but riding the tempest, seeking the moment and the trajectory of flight, yearning to transcend mortality and ascend to immortality.
Xiulote stood with his hands behind his back, looking up at the flock of soaring birds. His young face bore a world-weariness not befitting his age. Everything he had seen that day, like fleeting light dancing, remained etched in his heart. As if the bygone years returned to him, accompanied by five thousand years of war and slaughter, unforgettable and long-lasting.