In the second year of Jian'an, it was drizzling in Xudu, and the wicker branches were shining brightly from the rain. Cao Xiu stood on the wooden stool and stood on tiptoe to reach the bronze mirror. The mirror reflected a small, fair face with a milky air. The cries in Sikong's mansion were loud, and an urgent report came from Wancheng - Cao Ang had lost his life in the rebellion. Cao Xiu sighed: Dad is gone and I am only five years old. Even if you know what will happen next, you can't do anything. Cao Ang's death did not even make a splash in history.
