The third prince Zhao Heng on the tower had his hair tied up with a golden crown and a black python robe that made his face look like a crown jewel, but the coldness in his eyes was even more biting than the cold wind of the twelfth lunar month in the border area. "A substitute is a substitute after all," his voice came through the wind tunnel of the tower, with condescending contempt, "Lu Bianyun, do you think you can shake the power of God with a group of refugees and a few tricks?"
Lu Bianyun raised his hand to tuck his wind-blown forehead hair, and his fingertips touched a shallow scar on his forehead - it was scratched by a stray arrow during the last night attack. He smiled, his voice was not loud, but it reached the ears of everyone up and down the tower clearly: "The 'substitute' that the Third Highness mentioned refers to my identity as a scribe, or is your 'Jiuyuan' hidden in the old site of the Imperial City Division the real substitute living in the shadows?"
