Dayongjinghe three years, late spring.
The weeping willows on both sides of the Bianhe River are as green as dripping oil. The fine flying catkins are swept by the warm wind and stick to the cargo ships passing by. They also fall on the mottled mane of the water-calming stone lion at the bridge head. In the teahouse on the shore, the storyteller had just tapped the wake-up wood and was spitting about the iron-blooded legend of the late emperor's conquest of Beidi. The cheers of the tea guests around him mixed with the chants on the river, making Bianliang, the most prosperous capital in the world, even more lively.
