Qin Ling looked at the sky. The clouds were dyed red. Just like the people lying beside him, their clothes were still stained with large blood stains. He had always died in their arms, and now it was their turn to die in his arms.
He raised his head and looked at the man standing next to him. His face was full of traces of vicissitudes of life over the years, but the back of his head was combed with long shiny braids. Qin Ling was gently caressing him, and his voice was full of sorrow and longing, like a moan.
You promised to give me money, status and love.
But.
Where is love?
He fell in a pool of blood, holding the man's long wig in his hand.
Crows flew overhead, laughing arrogantly and mockingly.
Everything they have experienced cannot be found even in historical records. The endless hatred and love are like their reincarnation, swallowing up all the joys and sorrows, leaving no sound.
Will he still remember what he said to the one who has always loved him?
In Qinling, some things are inevitable.
Their love and hate, pain and joy. There is no escape.