It's time for you to rise. Ten years of hidden dragons lurking in the abyss, one day riding the wind to reach the nine heavens. Heaven does not produce useless people; the earth does not grow nameless grass. The Yellow River still has clear days. How can people be without luck? Snow pressing on the cold plum's head, not bowing low. Lying on firewood, tasting gall, waiting for the right time. One day, together, we will rise with the wind and soar straight up ninety thousand miles.