In the thirty-ninth year of Qianlong's reign, it was summer.
The city of Beijing seems to have been ripped open, with heavy rains having continued for more than half a month. The lead-gray sky drooped, and the rainwater did not drip, but poured down in patches, hitting the glazed tiles of the Forbidden City, converging into rapid water, and gushing out along the white marble chi head. In the city, the water level of Shichahai has already overflowed the embankment, and the turbid muddy water is flowing freely in the ancient streets and alleys, carrying broken branches, tattered household items, and even swollen livestock carcasses.
The atmosphere in the back hall of Shuntianfu Yamen was even more depressing than the weather outside the window.
