When he was sixteen years old, he lay on his uncle's lap. The light and shadow are sparse, and the years are quiet; when he was eighteen years old, he stood on the highest city wall with a sharp knife in his hand, and the war was raging, and his family and country were no longer there. When he was twenty-one, he didn't know what he loved or hated. He hated him, but he loved him even more. "Uncle Emperor, please give me a city without sorrow."