The snow in the north never shows mercy. Three sentry posts, seventy-two soldiers, their throats were cut with sharp blades overnight, and their blood turned to ice, but no one uttered a cry. The enemy troops were like ghosts, with no war drums or horns, leaving only a vague nursery rhyme in the wind - "Nine-Tailed Ballad", a requiem that was burned by the royal family and even historians did not dare to record. When Li Xiao stepped into the ruins, what was crushed under his feet was not bones, but silence. The soldiers in the Iron Prison Camp did not dare to speak out. They had followed him for seven years. They had seen him single-handedly split the enemy's cavalry, and they had seen him nail the traitors to the city wall with his own hands, but they had never seen him standing in a pool of blood, motionless, like a stone statue sealed by the wind and snow. Until he bent down and dug out a copper whistle from the fingers of a headless corpse. The blood-stained copper whistle has blurry lines, but you can still make out the nine-tailed fox pattern engraved on the inside. Li Xiao's breathing stopped suddenly. Ten years. The child was stuffed into his palm before dying
