Five years old, it was a nightmare. In late autumn, the yellow leaves rustle. The candle was extinguished, the moonlight was clear, the sword was shining, and the thick dark red liquid slid down the tip of the sword, dyeing the thin snow red. Outside the window, the maple leaves are redder. At the age of twelve, he met the daughter of his enemy, but they made a lifelong pact because they lied about their names. Five years later, he broke into Luoyang with a sword, only to find that the girl he rescued was the daughter of his enemy. Spring has passed and autumn has come, and it's time for the cherry blossom trees to bloom again. It turns out that the person who was really wrong was himself. The love poem written five years ago still seems to be echoing in my ears: When my hair reaches my waist, will it be okay for a young man to marry me? Cailing Literary Society