Nine black coffins, eight widows.
My father died in battle, and my eight older brothers all fell on the northern frontier.
All that remained of the Xiao family was me, eighteen years old, and eight sisters-in-law in mourning clothes.
Outside the gate, corrupt officials were demanding to tear down our iron gate to pay a debt.
Late that night, my eighty-year-old grandmother knelt before me:
“Chen'er, protect these eight poor souls. Don't let this cruel world devour them.”
I promised her.
Because I am more than the Xiao family's ninth son:
In my previous life, they called me the King of Hell. I was a special forces commander.
Later, an army of a hundred thousand enemy troops broke through the pass.
No one at court dared to fight, so I took up the marshal's seal.
Three thousand battered soldiers, defending the gates of our homeland.
On the city wall, eight women in plain white robes beat the war drums to cheer us on.
Amid the smoke of battle, an infant's cries rang louder than the fighting.
They asked me, “Can you hold the line?”
I looked back at that iron gate:
Nine memorial tablets stood upon it, and eight women waited behind it.
As long as the people live, the gate stands.
As long as the gate stands, the nation stands.
