The girl who had been sleeping in the imperial tomb for a hundred years was a disciple who was forced to him by chance. The sword saint who everyone admired on the mountain of Kahuáng was a master who she could not even want and could not get rid of. He saved the world and the people, but he could not save his disciple. When we met again eight years ago, she changed into red clothes and put on a mask, which was already a disaster that everyone in the imperial capital feared. He pursued him relentlessly, just to ask, 'Where is my disciple?' She was right in front of him, and she must be someone else. The love of the past few years is deep, the years are ridiculous, and the sword she picked is stained with blood. She fantasized about why she didn't die in the most touching year. It was when the white horse bone on Yunqinfeng had not yet shook her back. He squinted his eyes and twisted the smile of all living beings: 'A Che, this hundred-year wine, the master is going to be drunk.'