In the autumn of the sixth year of Xuanhe, there was a heavy rain in Taihang Mountain.
Su Qingyuan, the only daughter of Zhenyuan Escort Bureau, fell into a blue crack in the mountain stream where her father died in battle. When I opened my eyes again, the rain was still falling, but the river water was no longer the river water of Taihang Mountain.
A young man named Shen Yan stood three steps away holding an umbrella, his voice trembling: "You are injured."
She clutched the bloody dagger tightly, thinking it was another robber.
He didn't know how to explain the mountains of white rice and fine salt in cars, cell phones, and supermarkets.
She didn't know how to tell him - when she came, she brought the blood and moon of the Northern Song Dynasty with her.
"What year is it here?"
"2026."
There is a gap of nine hundred years between the sixth year of Xuanhe and 2026.
But nine hundred years later, someone held an umbrella for her.
On a rainy night, an old friend comes to cross over.
Intention: warmth and redemption across time and space. Gentleness itself is strength, and love grows out of ordinary fireworks.