In the Yanzhou camp in the first year of Jian'an, the cicadas in the southeast tent were so noisy that people's scalps tightened. I was wearing a blue military uniform and nestled in front of the case, eating dry biscuits and reading "Yi Zhuan". Outside, the newly recruited yellow turban soldiers were shouting slogans amidst the sounds of drills. This thin silk scroll was given to me by an old man by the Weishui River many years ago. At that time, I just thought it was a piece of waste paper. Now I have turned it over for the seventh time and found that it contains all the code words for marching and formation. The curtain was suddenly opened a crack, and the wind blew in and rustled the pages. I looked up and saw a young man in black armor standing at the door. He was carrying two bottles of water and said he was here to deliver drinks on the order of the village chief. When I took the pot, I took another look at him. The calluses on the outside of his palms were in the wrong position. It's not the person holding the knife, it's the person holding the pen. I lowered my head and continued to flip through the book without asking any questions. After he put the water down and went out, I folded the corner of the page and clamped it up. The water in this military camp is not that delicious.
