The first year of Baiqi, the Baijun Dynasty, the twenty-seventh year of Tianhe, the end of July.
Yuanjian is crowded with people, rivers and rain are like dreams, Kyoto crosses thousands of roads, generations are like people declining and sending purple smoke, and the twilight is dim and looking at old dreams.
The dark yellow color is the thin shadow of the drizzle falling from the sycamore tree, the resentment of the late wind. Crossing the deserted emptiness, fishing alone in the cold river is desolate. When death comes, no one knows how cold the cold Gujiang night is.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
