The moonlight cuts open the prison of Bianjing like a scalpel.
Lu Yan woke up on a putrid straw mat, with the mechanical blueprints of the 21st century burning in his mind, but burned into the body of this eighteen-year-old son of a craftsman. My father was waiting to die in the water prison, with his neck stuck in the cannon - the structure of the keyhole was automatically decomposed into a three-dimensional cross-section in his mind.
In the distance, the sound of horse hooves as the Jin Dynasty envoy entered Beijing was heard, trampling the autumn night of Xuanhe's fourth year.
He squeezed the half of the saw blade that the jailer had missed.
This night, the soul of a modern engineer began to use the knowledge of a thousand years later to pry the most rusty gears of a dynasty.
