On a spring morning, I stepped into Congtai Park in Handan. Climbing the stone steps to Wuling Congtai, the green bricks and gray tiles gleamed softly in the warm sun, and the statue of King Wuling of Zhao, dressed in nomadic attire and riding an cavalry, seemed to still be fluttering in the wind. Turning around and looking down, the lake was like a mirror, and the hexagonal eaves of Wangzhu Pavilion peeked out from the water like an ancient green seal. I passed through the Temple of the Seven Sages, where, nestled among pines and cypresses, the statues of Lian Po and Lin Xiangru stood silently facing each other, evoking the noble sentiment of "bearing thorns to apologize." Willow branches swayed gently by the lake, and the fragrance of lotus blossoms wafted through the air. Elderly people practiced Tai Chi, and children fed koi fish; history and daily life clasped hands here. Climbing to the ruins of the ancient city wall, the buildings of Handan and the distant mountains came into view, and time and space seemed to overlap. Before leaving the park, the setting sun gilded Congtai with a layer of gold. I looked back, and the sound of war drums seemed to echo in my ears, my heart filled with a thousand-year-old heroic spirit.