At the end of the Qing Dynasty and the beginning of the Republic of China, the sound of the urban tide filled the street corners with the smell of gunpowder and the fragrance of ink. Lin Shubai came to the Tianjin Concession from the countryside and plunged into the night of the printing shop. His fingers were stained with typeface and soot, and his eyes reflected the light of the river under the eaves and the flicker of gunfire. Xue Yuyan, a female actress in a restaurant in the French Concession, dances between officials, businessmen and foreigners with a song, guarding a trace of sobriety that refuses to be extinguished amidst the lights and shadows of drunkenness and wealth. Yu Ziqiang, a coolie from a dock, whose back was rubbed red by the poles, learned to hold his head high amidst the groans and curses of his co-workers. Duan Changhe, a Beiyang officer, came from a humble background. At heart he was half a loyal brother and half an iron-blooded and cold-blooded swordsman.
The times have tied them together by a rope, leaving deep traces: the sealed leaflets in newspapers, the hasty rallies on the streets, the rough rattan in police stations, and the deep loyalty hidden in the romance field. The railway turmoil, the 1911 Shock, the May 4th Movement, warlords' melee, currency depreciation, labor unrest... Every ebb and flow left a gap in their lives. Some people turned around and hid in the warmth, some stood up and roared into the wind, some were pushed away by the times, and when they looked back, they saw only confetti and smoke on the ground.
This is not a legend, there is no magic hand that can turn the clouds and reveal the sun. People's hearts are cracking at the corners and competing to bloom in the cracks. Love and betrayal embrace, good and evil entangle, laughter and crying intertwine. Lin Shubai walked onto the street from an old printing press and saw the ice of death and the warmth of money, the shaking of his friend's back and the tears in a woman's eyes. They pulled each other, redeemed and hurt each other, holding up a spark in the ruins, weak, but enough to point the way forward.
