On March 18, the seventeenth year of Chongzhen, Meishan.
Under the crooked-necked tree, the wind was depressing.
The moment Bai Ling tightened, Zhu Youjian's eyes reopened - what was inside was the man who was ambushed by Gaixia from all sides at night and who eventually died in the bell room of Changle Palace.
Han Xin lowered his head and looked at his hands, which had been approving memorials for seventeen years but had never touched a knife, and then looked at the firelight spreading from all sides at the foot of the mountain.
The eunuch cried and reported: "Your Majesty, the 300,000 robbers have broken into the outer city!"
He pulled off the white silk and tied it around his waist as a belt.
"Three hundred thousand?" "The more, the merrier."
This time, he won't go to Meishan. He wanted to go down the mountain and bring back the soldiers of the Ming Dynasty one by one.
