The rope broke.
I fell off the beam of Cong Temple and landed face down in the mud.
This is my second time hanging myself. God won't accept it.
During the Jiajing period, Nanchang, Jiangxi Province. My name is Gong Xian, a beggar whose parents both died. Being kicked, beaten, having bowls smashed, and being peed on - "Aren't you going to die?"
I went. Can't die.
Ganjiang Pier, I'm pulling fiber. The flesh on the shoulder turned out, and scabs formed and rubbed off the next day. Someone pointed to the notice and said that Sichuan martial arts examinations are conducted regardless of one's origin.
I can't read. All I know is that if you can stretch your body, you can hit someone.
I immigrated to Shu and changed my surname. Gong Xian died, Liu Xian lived.
There was chaos in Yibin. I fell into battle and killed the enemy. There were more than fifty people in my hand.
From this moment on, one head is worth three taels of silver—my life finally has a price.
But after surviving, I discovered: it is easy to hide from a knife on the battlefield, but it is the knife around you that kills you. Brothers betrayed, heroes rebelled, and wives remained silent. I turned everyone into tools and sharpened myself into a knife.
Forty years later, an army of 140,000 soldiers obeyed my orders.
But at night, I still think of that rope - who cut it?
