
About This Novel
Intoxicated by the sound of the flute, the setting sun is blowing, the west wind is blowing, and the green trees are withering. The sword is hidden, the green peak is far away in the rivers and lakes, white hair is born, beauty is withered. In the dream, the light is dancing in the past, wielding swords, rivers and lakes, princes and princes, chatting and laughing with countless mountains and rivers. The legend of the sword, a pot of wine.
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