In the third year of Wu Zhou's Chang'an reign, it was the Shangsi Festival.
By the Qujiang Pool, peach blossoms are blooming. The carriages and horses of dignitaries filled the entire royal road, and the scent of powder mixed with the smell of wine floated out for ten miles. Fifteen-year-old Shen Qingci stood on the colorful building, looking at the well-dressed women from aristocratic families downstairs, with a faint smile on her lips.
"Girl, it's your turn." The maid reminded in a low voice.
Shen Qingci didn't move. Her gaze passed over the competing girls and landed on the majestic imperial city in the distance. The setting sun was setting, coating the glazed tiles with a layer of golden red, which was very similar to the blood that slowly spread on the ground when her father was dragged away when she was five years old.
"Do you know why they smile so beautifully?" Shen Qingci suddenly asked.
The maid was stunned.
"Because they don't know," Shen Qingci turned around, his black cloak flapping in the wind, "the peonies in Chang'an City are all raised from white bones."
