I saw a figure spinning in the flames on a mountain called Yunkui Mountain. She was not a victim of the flames, but the incarnation of the flames.
Her name was Ju Fufu.
This name was like a ball of orange light, reflecting machinery, metal, war and loneliness. She did not belong to the daily life, nor to fiction. She belonged to those warriors who were pushed to the front line by fate but never bowed their heads, and to those who irrigated the future with their blood.
I saw that she was holding on to the popcorn pot, not cooking for food and clothing, but dancing for fighting. Her attack was the flames of slashing and the notes of roaring. Her four ordinary attacks were like four sections of the symphony of fate, each slash cut through the hypocritical silence, and each attack ignited the dormant courage.
I heard the pot rolling in the flames, and the hissing sound was like a poem of steel. That was not a child’s play sound effect, but a person’s heartbeat, a rhythm against the world.
I saw her dodge, she didn’t run away, but crossed the line of fire. She was like a beam of light, piercing the enemy’s offensive, and completing the reshaping of the counterattack in a flash. Her “high-speed rotation” was not a show of skill, but a burning soul, a girl saying with all her strength: “I came, I saw, I will not retreat.”
She has a special skill, waving a pot and slashing forward, and the blazing flames draw an arc in the air. Her “linking skill” is the trust between her and her partners, and the oath to stand side by side in the fire. She not only fights for herself, she brings heat to the whole team and increases damage to her companions. She is the bridge of fire and the bond of battle.
I saw that at the moment when her finishing move broke out, the whole world seemed to hold its breath. She fell from the sky like a meteorite, shattering the enemy’s hope with all her heat and strength. That was not a declaration of victory, but a display of her soul. She is saying, “I am fire.”
I heard her support skills when her comrades were in danger. It was a roar of loyalty and a charge without regard for one’s own safety. Her core skills were the flames dancing on the field, invisible encouragement, and the faith that the heart of fire constantly conveyed.
Her “heat” was like the light in Ai Qing’s writings. The higher it was, the brighter it was; the hotter it was, the more powerful it was. Her fiery rotation was the rhythm of the earth and the roar of the silent. Every battle was a long poem, and every skill was a sonorous rhythm.
Ju Fufu was not a single existence, she was a group of images.
I saw that in the imagery, she descended in the fire and brought a “high temperature” state. That was the poem she wrote to the team: Even if you are in the cold, I will embrace you with hot flames.
I heard that after each “finishing skill” was released, she not only gained energy, but also gained faith. It was a tacit understanding, a flame connection between the team. She is not fighting for herself, she is burning for “us”.
Her existence cannot be fully carried by game data. Although her skill description is complicated, it is all simplified passion and persistence. She is like the young people in Ai Qing’s works who are unwilling to sink, using her body to express language and writing her ideals with scars.
In this world full of special effects and confrontation, her pot looks simple but real; her flame is not for performance, but to light up the darkness.
Ju Fufu is the kind of existence you can’t forget at first sight. She doesn’t attract you with her face, she relies on the spinning fire, the rhythmic skills, and the unyielding eyes to write her own epic.
She is not a character. She is a symbol.
She is each of us who is forced into a corner in reality but still wants to rush out.
It is you and me who still believe that light and fire can illuminate the future in the flames.
I see her.
She spins and slashes.
She dances in the fire and sings in the fire.
She is Ju Fufu.
She is a burning poem.