Dressed as the Yellow Turban Army, Zhang Xin, a fourteen-year-old sick man, was so thin that he hung a wind chime. My parents wanted to use me as their son. He kicked down the door and ran out to squat on the city wall, with the sun shining on his face. The defenders below the city were carrying flags with Chinese characters. I touched the back of my head and the scabbard was still there—yesterday I was editing PPT in the cubicle, but today I was holding a fire stick and roaring to the point that I got up. Wild vegetables cannot tell the difference between poisonous mushrooms and roots, but I know where Cao Cao camped and when Zhuge Liang came out. I have eighteen hundred years of useful information in my head, which is enough for me to survive until the end of the troubled times. The khaki waves at the top of the city rolled up, and I tightened my grip on the scabbard and grinned: Survive today first, and then surrender to Boss Cao.
