I have a dream of the martial world.
In my dream, I ride on horseback with a blade in hand and a jug of wine at my side.
I gallop across the barren frontier, its yellow earth stretching beneath me. The biting dust slows my weary steps. I gaze at the towering, snow-capped mountains, then let go with a carefree flourish and set my blade straight, charging ahead for three thousand miles.
I water my horse in Penglai, the Immortal Isle, and lightly wave the red-lettered royal banner in my hand. What does it matter if that dynasty stands prosperous for a thousand ages? A million iron cavalrymen of the Hongwu era roar as one, ready to follow me north and fight to the death for thirty thousand miles.
I dismount and watch people hurrying through the old streets and alleys. Beneath a parasol tree, I share a drink with an old beggar, drunk and lost in a life-or-death dream, unaware whether the one who once drew his blade and swept across a thousand yards, who once led iron cavalry to defeat beneath the setting sun, was in the dream or beyond it.
