Daming: My Father Was a Traitor, and I Was a Rebel in My Previous Life.

In the autumn of the 29th year of Jiajing, Yan Shifan woke up from a nightmare. His father Yan Song raised his head and glanced at him. He had seen that look before - gentle, shrewd, with the corners of his mouth slightly raised. In the Tang Dynasty, on Li Linfu's face. His father is Li Linfu, the person he feared most in his previous life. Neither of them said anything, but they knew each other: the other knew who they were. He decided to keep a low profile and get through this life first. But he soon discovered that there was no normal person in the court: Xu Jie looked tired after signing the Treaty of Shimonoseki, Hai Rui looked like a reformer who had failed, Zhang Juzheng looked like someone who had attempted to usurp the throne, Qi Jiguang looked like someone who had been tortured, Hu Zongxian looked like he had jumped over repeatedly, Lu Fang looked like he had made seven voyages to the West, and King Yu looked like he was happy to be in Shu. What's even weirder is that he always has the same dream - a place with no color or shape, nine figures standing in the void, facing each other with their true colors. He didn't know that those "unexplainable intuitions" came from a sealed modern soul, nor did he know that Jiajing, an old monster who had lived for two thousand years, summoned them with a golden elixir. He just wanted to see how a group of sinners who were nailed to the pillar of shame in history struggled in a desperate situation - whether they could extend their lives for the Ming Dynasty for a hundred years, and whether they could make him believe that the struggle itself was meaningful. He only knows that he must learn to stand firm in the torment of his three personalities. He thought he was building a wall, but he didn't know that the wall would turn into a seed. When he opened Jiajing's door, he said something. It is a story about a "son of a traitor" and a "spirit of a rebel" who used the dirtiest reputation to do the cleanest thing, planting seeds in the cracks of history, and eventually trickling down into a river.