Wealth and luxury were like a dream, one's name in history was nothing but wasted paper. The mortal world was a dangerous place. The hooves of horses left prints on the frosted roads. Each day I listened to the singing of birds. I valued fame as dirt and have long wished to hide in the jianghu. To break through the royal family's phoenix nest, Bo Yi and Shu Qi were enviable for their hidden abodes. What makes one sigh is Han Xin and Peng Yue dying in Weiyang. It is better to pretend madness and hand in the paper for resignation.
(First by Wang Yuanheng, Toward the Emperor, as an epigraph)
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