The west wind blows the waves of the old Dongting, and Xiangjun has a lot of white hair all night. After getting drunk, he doesn't know that the sky is in the water, and the boat is full of clear dreams and the galaxy is pressing on.

Turn your wrist slightly, lift your pen and continue:

The young man did not know the taste of sorrow, but fell in love with the upper floor. He loved the upper floor, and forced to say sorrow to write new poems. Now he knew the taste of sorrow, but he wanted to say it but he stopped. He wanted to say it but he said it was cool and it was a good autumn.

The word is formed and the pen is thrown.

Ji Ping'an pointed at the monkey mask that served as the head of the lottery and a bracelet, and said gently:

"Thank you, wrap these three things up."

"ah……"

The stall owner came back to his senses and looked at him in surprise, thinking that it was Wenquxing from the Imperial College where he was going to smash the scene...

He didn't dare to delay, as if he was afraid that the young man in front of him would continue to write, so he hurriedly took out three objects and stuffed them to him.

Ji Ping'an smiled, stuffed the monkey mask to Mu Yaoyao, stuffed the cloth tiger to Luo Huaizhu, and finally handed the bracelet to Xu Xiurong.

In the surprised gaze of the female prison guard Hou whispered:

"Seeing you stared at it for a few breaths, you took it back."

Xu Xiurong was stunned for a moment, and said with a complicated look: "You have never said it, but you can still write poetry."

Ji Ping'an saw the movement here attracting the attention of the crowd around him, and hurriedly led the three of them to the distance, looking innocent:

"I don't know, this is what the national teacher told me back then."

Seeing that the actress was still staring at him, he beat him up and said:

"Let's go, there are many gadgets in front of you. If you want them, tell me that we don't have to spend money. This is called purchasing."

Mu Yaoyao was excited when she heard this. Luo Huaizhu held a cloth tiger, tilted her head, and the corners of her mouth slowly raised, and she was very happy.

Xu Xiurong bit his lips and looked at him, then started to laugh.

The four of them quickly squeezed out of the crowd, and accidentally met a scholar wearing a Confucian shirt with red lips and white teeth.

Almost collided.

"Feel sorry!"

Han Qingsong apologized and waited for the four of them to leave before he let out a deep breath, with a little depressed look on his pretty face.

Today's Wenxuanlou Wenshu, logically speaking, as a disciple of Yunhuai Academy, he should have participated in the literary battle there.

But... Han Qingsong's swordsmanship is first-class, and his articles are pretty good, but he is actually quite mediocre in poetry.

He was unable to participate in the war and became famous for the Huaiyuan, but he was quite good at this.

Han Qingsong sat in Wenxuan Pavilion for a while, and saw the literati of the academy and Hanlin Academy exude each other's literary talent, but he couldn't even get into his mouth, and he felt depressed.

In depressed, I simply found a reason to come out and get some breath.

Anyway, the text will last for a few hours, and he will go back later.

“Huh?”

At this time, Han Qingsong suddenly noticed the riots in front of him, and many scholars were blocking in front of a vendor.

The sound of exclamations, praise, and inquiries and discussions were mixed together, which was extremely eye-catching.

What happened?

Han Qingsong was curious, and he held the hilt of the sword around his waist, squeezed away the crowd and came over, and patted a scholar on the shoulder:

"Brother, please ask, is this happening?"

The scholar looked excited:

"Just just now, a young man continued to write three famous works by the National Master in one go. It was extremely amazing, and I only saw it in my life."

Han Qingsong looked suspicious and said "happy", thinking that even the gods and scholars didn't have much knowledge.

Over the past century, there have been countless famous works of the National Master, and there are many outstanding ones.

Some people even say that later generations have exhausted the broken poems and lyrics, meaning:

It is impossible for someone to continue writing better.

What good sentences can be made in this street stall? Perhaps these scholars have never seen the world.

Han Qingsong shook his head, turned around with a proud look on his face and was about to leave.

At this time, there were probably too many people crowding over the onlookers, and the stall owner couldn't bear it, so he simply shouted loudly, suppressed the crowd, and then recited the sentence Ji Ping'an completed loudly.

The next moment, Han Qingsong's original step stopped, and his whole body seemed to have been used to impose a fixed method.

Breathing was rapid, and a layer of fine bumps appeared like an electric shock under the skin of the Confucian scholar's robe sleeve, and his face turned red from excitement.

"This poem..."

He turned his head in horror and stared at the crowd, as if he had seen something incredible.
Chapter completed!