A hundred years ago, his white clothes were stained with blood, and he was shot through the heart by his brother; he, wearing black shackles, was imprisoned at home by his father. He died indifferently, died freely, and died without leaving any trace; he waited in pain, heartbreak, and hopelessness. One hundred years later, in the Desert Lotus City, he saw him again, still dressed in white, still with three thousand black hair, still the same him, the one he was familiar with. He looked at him, smiled lightly and said, "Sir, have you and I seen him before?" At that moment, he was ecstatic. He remembers him, he still remembers him! As the saying goes: A song of mourning, a hundred lifetimes of waiting, no matter what the remaining soul is, it doesn't matter, as long as it's you.