The Wind Blows in Chang'an

When Wang Zhuo closed his eyes, he was so tired from revising his paper that he fell asleep on his desk. When he opened his eyes again, he stood on a battlefield plowed by blood and fire. There are rubble and corpses under their feet, and in the distance is a circle of giant cannibals, with black figures still charging towards them. The sword light flashed for the last time and went out. He knew the scene. Not in this life, but in the history books. He is a graduate student in the Department of History. He has read every record of this battle - "New Book of Tang", "Zi Zhi Tong Jian", and Arab Chronicles, which are the "isolated evidence and doubts" that he used to write notes on his thesis. Until he saw with his own eyes more than 10,000 corpses lying in front of him, saw the Geluolu people's scimitar stabbing into the Tang army's defense line from behind, and saw the Liangzhou army who went to aid Anxi rushed into the sea of ​​fire one by one and never came back. He only left one sentence: "I have to pick him up. He belongs to our Liangzhou Army." Then he woke up. Chang'an, the 22nd year of Kaiyuan. Sophora flowers cover Zhuque Street, the Anshi Rebellion has not yet broken out, and the Battle of Talos is still seventeen years away. There is still time for everything. Fourteen-year-old Wang Zhuo stood at the gate of Liangzhou City, with more than a thousand years of memories in his mind. He knew that the Tang Dynasty would perish, that the Western Regions would be lost, and that his own bodyguard would die in front of him at dusk seventeen years later. But he knew better—he was still alive. They are still alive. Seventeen years is enough for a baby to grow into a soldier, enough for a soldier to become a general, and enough for a child to become a person who changes history.