(No system, no harem, no invincibility, no time travel, no brainlessness, Machiavellianism) The last ray of light of the peaceful and prosperous age is being dyed into the color of ashes by the emperor's cloudy eyes.
Forty-seven years of civil and military skills are just a thin layer of ice above the abyss of power. When the iron hoofs guarding the northern border shatter the silence of the long street, and when the gentle Confucianism and Taoism are pushed to the cliff by the cold military front, there is a game with the country as the bet, and there is no way out.
Is it the fish on the chopping board, or the person holding the knife?
Should I be a lamb tamed by the rules, or a tiger tearing the rules apart?
On the chessboard, who is the chess piece and who is the chess player? Perhaps, even the ninth-level emperor is just a spark that refuses to be extinguished in the larger chessboard of fate.
