The Wei River outside Chang'an City was still covered with thin ice, and the glazed tiles in the front hall of Weiyang Palace were covered with residual snow. The cold wind drove straight in from the North Tower, causing the palace people to walk quickly through the corridor with their necks hunched. The heart of the entire empire beats extremely slowly in this season that turns from warm to cold.
Liu Che was sitting in front of the royal desk in Xuanshi Hall, holding a roll of bamboo slips in his hand, but his eyes fell on the old locust tree outside the hall. The dead branches swayed in the wind, like the outstretched fingers of a dying person. He had been sitting here all afternoon, not reading a single word on the bamboo slips.
