And so, another six months passed.
More than a year had passed since the fierce battle at Chang'an and the change of ruler in Guanzhong.
Over this past year, cowed by the might of the "Martial King," the beacon fires in all directions gradually died down, and the heroes of every faction slowly fell quiet.
After all, no one wanted to become the second unlucky fool after Li Tang to suffer a thousand-mile raid by the Martial Guard Army, with flying cavalry trampling through the passes.
Naturally, everyone kept as low a profile as possible and dared not act rashly.
Thus, amid this chaotic age, there was rare peace at last.
The great river flowed east, its waves washing away heroes of a thousand ages.
West of the old fortress, they said, lay Red Cliffs of Zhou Lang in the Three Kingdoms.
Jagged rocks pierced the sky; raging waves battered the shore, rolling up a thousand heaps of snow.
Rivers and mountains were like a painting—how many heroes had there been in that age?
I thought of Gongjin in his prime, when Xiao Qiao had just become his bride, his heroic bearing blazing forth.
With feather fan and silk scarf, laughing and talking, he turned masts and oars to ash and smoke.
Wandering in dreams through that old land, sentiment should mock me for growing white-haired too soon.
Life was but a dream; let me pour a cup in tribute to the river moon...
Yangtze River, Red Cliffs—a song of remembrance, recalling those bygone years.
Looking upon the present now, it carried an altogether different flavor.
There were no iron chains linking ships across both banks of Jianghuai, nor were there two armies facing one another, a feather fan and silk scarf commanding the nation.
There was only a