In the autumn of the fifteenth year of Hongwu, Tang Zhuo woke up from an old dream.
He clearly remembered that he was a modern person, and he also clearly remembered that Ming Dynasty should not be like this.
What's even more outrageous is that he has a sword in his hand.
There are two words engraved on the inside of the sword hilt: Wandering Dragon.
A woman in white stopped him and said, "You have black and yellow embers on your body."
An old man with a tiger head lifted his hood and told him: "You have always been Tang Zhuo, the Tang Zhuo of the Tang Dynasty government."
Tang Zhuo just wanted to laugh.
But the remnants of Chi You's army have already come to the door.
The undercurrent in the court is surging, and Jinling's sword is colder than the ghosts.
And when his sword struck out, even he couldn't hold it back.
Who is he?
Is he that modern man who just wants to eat and die?
Is he a young disciple in the ruined courtyard of the Tang Dynasty government?
Or the swordsman who died at the hands of Chi You six hundred years ago?
No one gave him an answer.
They only told him:
The old formation must be reopened, and destiny must be restored.
But this time, no one can guarantee that they will survive.
