The Song Dynasty was a beautiful place filled with his sad past. His hometown was there, resplendent and magnificent, but his old dreams were hard to warm to. After finishing a glass of wine, he looked at the hot wind mountain, the Black Wind Valley, the flying dust, the smoke and iron horses, and returned to the blood-stained old battlefield with his thoughts. He controls the sky and laughs freely, but he is still not as good as the sky, and he has nothing but tears of blood and red plums. That old beauty, no matter how smiling she was, could not calm his anger, because the dream would eventually wake up. The wine is fragrant, Nanke is lingering, and the water on the mat is cold all night long. He is still the cold-blooded national master who wanted to pierce her heart with a sword in front of the Tianmen array. She is still the female general of the Yang family whose love for a lifetime can never be equaled by the hatred of her family and country.
Prosperity is evident, but I have no chance. One day I will rule the world, and I must make the world bow down to me. The road ahead is long, and the land of Song Dynasty is not far away, but how many thorns and bumps there are must be written down one by one. What is written on the paper is ink or blood.