It's autumn again. The remaining clans on the Mobei grassland, the declining Shang clan, the dying Kuafu clan, and the descendants of the Goshawk: the Semi clan. Wielding ancient rusty swords, they fought, killed, and fought for a small piece of miserable survival land with blood. The ancient mourning songs continue. Thousands of years of withered grass half-covered the bones, and thousands of years of sand and dust only reflected the cold light.
Until, that day, the three gates roared loudly.
In order to survive, our fathers made up lies. In order to survive, the young man from the Shang tribe used indifference to cover up his mediocrity and struggled like a wolf, just to perpetuate this lie.
The Xuanhe family is burdened with a sad fate. In order to break this shackles for a promise, the man in Cangming wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, but could not wipe away the dark clouds in the sky.
The aging tribes are walking and singing among the withered grass, and the goshawks are flying low. Where will the sons of the grassland and the old people of the Semitic tribe go?
A few fallen leaves that cannot help themselves, in this whirlpool of history, are they destined to play only that sad song of mourning?