The jade hall is deep in spring, and the green slips are covered with frost.
Yan Qing's life was like a warm ancient inkstone, slowly rubbing away thick ink in the cold pool of history. He once used his book business spirit as a chapter, tempered his sword with the heart of a lonely minister, and wrote the legacy of his fathers and the mountains and rivers of his family and country into the blood-stained long strategy of the Northern Expedition. On the day of success in the prosperous age, the snow fell silently outside Qilin Tomb. The king lowered his eyes and said, "Sir, please die." Twenty years of sincerity turned into ashes on the paper.
He was a gentleman who was gently strangled by his ideals. His life was as calm as still water, but he eventually became a sunken boat under the stormy waves. She is the widow who buried her shirt under the red plum blossoms in Xue'an. She burned the rest of her life into ancient scrolls with cold incense, and found his broken reflection in the gap between the green lamp and the memory.
When the green slip suddenly turns into iron, when the frost blade cuts the clouds into snow, what this long and bloody song sings is never about the fall of a hero. It is about an era, how to crush its brightest moonlight into the snow in front of the grave with your own hands, and then hold the silent plum blossoms back to spring, petal by petal.
Purpose: Northern Expedition