The beacon smoke rolls across the ground and cracks the setting sun, the enemy is cut off, and the clothes are soaked in blood.
The iron cavalry is shaking in the dust, and the lone wild goose is chirping in the vast sky.
Tens of thousands of barren hills bury the bones of hatred, the wind sobs and the moon trembles.
The mountains and rivers are broken and tears form, the hometown is in mourning, and the dusk clouds are cool.
After a hundred battles, there is no way to avoid the frost.
If peace is promised, the strong souls will be rewarded, swords and halberds will be sold, and there will be no boundaries to cultivate.
Those who steal the country are princes!
Princes? Punish!
