Snowy night, lonely city, eight thousand generals. The enemy's 300,000 troops broke through the border in three days, and they were cut off from food and reinforcements. Mo Rusong stood at the top of the city, his body boiling with bloodthirsty fighting spirit - every mouthful of blood he drank made his bones heavier and his sword harder. He raised his hand and tore off his armor, revealing old scars all over his body: "Those who are guarding the gate today are all my dead soldiers." The horn exploded, and the remaining knights rushed into the enemy formation like an avalanche. When the knife slit the enemy general's throat, the truth about the backlash of his fighting spirit emerged - he was not fighting for his life, but was awakening.
