Dao Zhan Jinling

In the late winter of 1937, the city of Nanjing was destroyed, and the setting sun soaked the broken walls and ruins like blood. The iron hoofs of the Japanese army crushed the golden land of the Six Dynasties, and the beastly acts of burning, killing, looting and looting spread crazily in the streets and alleys, and the cries and fire intertwined into a human hell.​ Deep in Maoshan Mountain, Zhang Xuanqing, a Taoist priest from the Qingdeng Ancient Temple, had already broken through the world of mortals, but he ran into this bloody Shura field when he went down the mountain to do some shopping. He saw with his own eyes children being held at gunpoint, old women falling in front of burning houses, and the ancient capital that was once filled with incense turned into a slaughterhouse. At that moment, the fists under the Taoist robe were clenched white, and the pure heart in front of the portrait of Sanqing was burned away by the flames - Monks are compassionate, how can they just sit back and watch the common people suffer this misery?​