Dingding's Hundred Years of War Smoke

But the world is not what it was back then. If Xiang Yu had crossed Jiangdong back then, if Han Xin had not died in Changle Palace, if Zhuge Liang's star had not fallen on Wuzhangyuan back then - things in this world could have been written in many other ways. But the world is not what it was back then. The night was deep and the wind was cold. There are two fires on the wasteland, one big and one small. In the large group, one hundred and eight people gathered around, making a big noise; in the small group, thirty people sat quietly, waiting for someone to speak. One hundred years after that night. Later, historians wrote about these hundreds of years, leaving only four words: ** was unified under Qin **. No one remembers how many hearts and minds it took to cast the word "" minute by minute. No one remembers that the first hammer to cast it fell on a snowy night. At that time, they only had thirty people, seventeen hundred lives, and eleven days of food. Knives can rust, but orders cannot. A rusty order is more terrifying than no order at all.