Net Weavers of the Tang Dynasty

It snowed heavily in Chang'an, covering up the smell of blood on Zhuque Street. Su Ce stood on the ruined city wall and looked at the 100,000 rebels gathered below. There was not a single soldier behind him, only dozens of war drums with strange totems painted on them, and a few shivering musicians. "Sir, do you really want to open the city gate?" The musician asked with a cry. Su Ce tidied up the white official robe that had been stripped from a dead man's body, and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that looked calm but was actually stiff. "Open." "The world only knows that there is a saying in the art of war: what is true is what is false, and what is false is true." "But I don't know that the most brilliant art of war is to make you believe that I am destiny." "Play music! Just play the song "The Music of King Qin Breaking the Formation"!" The city gate is wide open and the sound of the piano is exciting. Of the 100,000 troops under the city, no one dared to take a step forward. This year, Su Ce was twenty-two years old. He had no power to bind a chicken, but he entered Taoism through deception and mended the sky with one hand.