On a snowy night in the seventh year of Jingming Dynasty, the rebels broke through Tiande Gate.
The nineteen-year-old Qinghuan was dragged to the front of the palace. The new emperor used his little finger to wipe away the blood on the corner of her lips, turned around and threw a foot of white silk to her:
"It is a good story that a prostitute died for her country."
She looked at the embarrassed young man with blood splattered on the ground outside the palace, and realized how thoroughly she had been used by the Ni King in these years.
The bells and chimes rang in unison, and all the officials knelt down to worship.
But the one who should be sitting on the throne is clearly the little beggar with a dirty face.
Intention: The destiny you think you control is just a preset
