In fact, everyone had this feeling, but many kept it to themselves.
Another reason was that people had developed an unreserved trust in God Lin—a muscle memory formed after having their faces slapped too many times by reality.
Until the very last moment, no one dared to voice it publicly.
"Do not listen to the sound of rain striking the forest leaves; why not whistle and saunter through the rain? What is the rush?"
"A single tale told in the Changyin Pavilion spans six hundred years—a mere grain of millet in the vast sea, a fleeting dream."
......
At this moment, as Zhou Sheng sang this traditional-style operatic passage, everyone could not help but want to stand to their feet.
It felt as if a current of electricity surged from the soles of their feet straight to their brains, raising goosebumps all over their skin. They were collectively struck dumb, unable to utter a single word.
This was a completely different sensation from the operatic style Jiang Qingshu had sung.
That magnificent grandeur, that rustic historical weight, and that brilliant aura rushed forward to meet them.
Everyone who heard it felt their scalps tingle.
Chapter 411