On the night of Shangyuan in the thirteenth year of Yongchang, a red horse trampled the lights of the imperial capital.
She is the "demon star" dotted with cinnabar, the most wanton pearl in the Duke's palace, but she insists on drawing rabbits on the cold and hard armor with blood; he is the god of death who has returned from the north. He drinks all the yellow sand at the edge of his sword, but is entangled in a wisp of medicinal fragrance for half his life.
He said she was ridiculous: "How can the secret room of Duke Wei's palace be filled with the names of rebellious ministers?"
She laughed at his foolish loyalty: "A general's armor can protect mountains and rivers, but can it protect people's hearts?"
Until the day when the house was searched, the Suzaku Gate was sealed by heavy snow.
She broke the love jade and scratched his armor with her blood-stained fingertips: "Pei Changqing, do you know what is hidden in the deepest part of the darkroom in my room?"
——Three hundred unsent love poems, an unfinished portrait, and under the cinnabar-stained breast mirror, half of the tiger charm she secretly exchanged was hidden.
Ten years later, the desert wind and sand blinded his left eye, and a bloody letter fell from the silver bell:
"The imperial document is not in my handwriting. My father left it behind in Yanzhou."
The broken swaddling clothes wrapped in the secret of exchanging the legitimate son, the ice coffin locked up the injustice that spanned two generations, and the poisonous wine given by the new emperor was as hot as the mole at the end of her eye.
There are very few historical records, except for one sentence:
"In the spring of the twenty-sixth year of Yongchang, General Zhenbei passed away, and the Suzaku Gate's death knell rang throughout the ninth floor.
Rumor has it that when the begonias were withering every year, General Xuanjia and the lady in red passed by each other. There was a blue book on the saddle, and the ink marks were still wet:
"Hate is not hate, but regret.
I wish to be Liang Shangyan and return home with a red title every year. "
Intention: Ten thousand words of Tao are endless and endless
