Many years later, Zhang Liao stood at the spot where the smoke of war broke out, with thousands of miles of westerly wind and vast sea of sand in front of him. Behind him, the withered locust trees that surrounded the city picked out new buds. He rested on the back of his hand a brightly colored flag. The bamboo used for the flagpole was brought from the south of the Yangtze River. It also became yellow and cold here, rubbing his skin.
Last night, Hecheng was in ruins, and the defenses of the south gate were buried under five feet of ice and snow. At this time, there was a flickering fire in front of Zhang Liao, and there was only one pot of warm wine left in the corner - not enough for everyone. He lifted the door curtain. Five hundred people must have escaped last night. Those who are left behind now are also those who were left behind back then. They all hold spears and halberds and turn their heads to look at him, with fearless expressions on their faces.
He suddenly thought of Xiapi.
Conception: