[Zhang Jiao, Gao Shun, Jia Xu, Chen Duan, Diao Chan, Liu Bei, Cao Cao, strategy, passion, no golden fingers]
I traveled through time and became a refugee in the late Eastern Han Dynasty. I rotted in the ditch. Cold, hungry, and an earthy smell in my throat.
Zhang Jiao.
There is no immortal spirit, only an old robe that has been washed white, and a pair of eyes that are used to seeing death, but have not completely turned cold. He poured me a bowl of painfully bitter medicine and dragged me back to the human world from the mouth of the wild dog. I became another silent shadow in his porridge shed.
I followed him, and with the kindness of a bowl of porridge, I saw clearly the internal organs of this era. I saw him describing the thin porridge mixed with grass seeds as "a blessing from the Yellow Sky"; I saw him bending his back in front of the extorting officials, just to keep the pot burning. He is not rebellious by nature, he is just a fool who wants people to live. He used the guise of "Fu Shui" to treat illnesses, used the name of "Tao Altar" to store food, and carefully walked a life-saving tightrope on the edge of the law. Until that snowy night, the official's horse hoof crushed the pottery vat of the porridge shed.
Until the old man, who had been bending down in silence, slowly straightened up and looked at the messy and frightened people on the ground. The tired tenderness in his eyes turned into ice inch by inch. He said to me, more like he said to this cannibalistic world:
"This road has come to an end."
Now, he put the bloody "Yellow Sky" flag into my hand.
At the other end of the flag were tied thousands of lives that I had only seen in the porridge shack, but could no longer turn my back and ignore.
Huang Tian is not dead.
Just because there are still people who are not willing to live on their knees
