Chapter 1

**Full Court Fragrance: Inscription for "The Many Events at the End of the Jin Dynasty"**

Rolling barbarian dust, on Shaoling Plain, spring has come late once more.

Ruined doors and broken households, beams and pillars turned to dust and mud.

Heroes rise in the north and south, within and without the passes, the common people face life and death.

Chaos in Chang'an, meeting in the wind and snow, this life is less certain than a game of chess.

——

Blow the flute, you go, rushing to drive away the bandits, parting for thousands of miles.

Gazing at the shattered dragon city, banners covering the fields.

Heroically leading talented men to take up residence, forcing the Fei River, who can be a match for them?

The sky grows old, purple qi comes from the east, naturally aligning with heaven.

——

The wind is very cold.

The stove fire flickers.

Boys and girls, gathered around the stove.

A young man stands by the stove, hands behind his back, listening to the children discussing poetry.

He is only in his twenties, but compared to these children, who are seven or eight years old or even younger, he naturally appears much more mature.

Occasionally, he strokes his not-so-long beard with a satisfied look, pretending to be an adult, nodding in approval of a particular line the children say.

At other times, he turns to a bookshelf and pulls out an ancient text, clearly encountering something he is unsure about, and seeks verification.

Suddenly, a rustling sound comes from outside.

The wind grows stronger.

A child near the door curiously reaches out and pulls it open.

Cold wind rushes in, blowing everyone's sleeves and the scrolls on the table.

Fortunately, there are still bamboo slips and wooden tablets that the wind cannot move.

The slight chill on their faces brings a look of surprise to everyone's face.

It has started to snow, and it is a heavy, fluffy snow, falling profusely.

The young man himself also smiles, taking large steps to the door. The eaves and corridors at the entrance are not enough to shield against the wind and snow, and the snow falls onto his sleeves and cheeks.

The coolness is palpable, but it cannot dampen the joy in his heart.

Even though snow is not a novelty in the south these days, the arrival of auspicious snow at the end of the year is always a cause for celebration.

"White snow falls, what does it resemble?" the young man points to the door.

Clearly, he is continuing the theme of their earlier discussion, asking the children to come up with a line of poetry.

In the courtyard, the snow falls heavily, accumulating on the eaves, tree branches, and even the doorstep.

The young man blocks the door, and the children inside can only see the white expanse outside through the gaps in his body.

The children suppress their urge to rush out and play in the snow, scratching their heads and trying hard to come up with a line of poetry to get by.

All eyes turn to the oldest one.

At this moment, they look to their elder brother, even though he is just a little boy of eight or nine in the eyes of this talented uncle.

The oldest one does not hesitate, coughs lightly, and then stands up, reciting with modulation: "It is like salt scattered in the air!"

The young man smiles.

Before he can speak, a young voice chimes in: "Big brother Hu only thinks of eating!"

"Probably thinking of that day's roasted meat!"

The older boy's face turns red, whether from embarrassment or the cold, it is hard to tell.

The young man smacks his lips. The boy's line has some meaning, but it feels somewhat lacking.

At this moment, a clear and confident voice rings out from the crowd.

"Uncle, how about this: 'Not like willow catkins dancing in the wind.'"

The children fall silent, savoring the line, nodding their heads in thought, whether genuinely or not.

The young man is taken aback, then bursts into laughter: "Good, good!"

What a wonderful line: "Not like willow catkins dancing in the wind!"

He instinctively moves aside, wanting to praise the little girl who said the line, but the children, who have been waiting for this opportunity, rush out in a flurry.

If the uncle had not been blocking the door, they would not have been able to sit still.

The young man, coming to his senses, looks around. In the blink of an eye, the room is empty, except for the incense burner in the corner, still emitting a wisp of smoke, its shape resembling a little devil laughing at the scene.

The man sighs.

The Xie family of Chen County has been rising in power and is on the verge of surpassing the Wang family of Langya, becoming the leading family in this Black Robe Lane. How can his children only know how to play and enjoy themselves?

But then he thinks, playing is a child's nature, why force them to stop?

Pulling up the seedlings to help them grow is not a good thing.

When they grow up, there will be a vast family business waiting for them to shoulder. For now... let them play.

If the sky falls, there are still uncles and older brothers to hold it up, not them.

In a moment of daze, the courtyard is filled with the children's silver laughter.

And he himself quietly recites:

"White snow falls, what does it resemble? Not like willow catkins dancing in the wind."

I wonder whose benefit these young dragons and phoenixes will bring in the future?

The man slowly raises his head to look at the courtyard. The snow on the eaves of the opposite house is blown by the wind, swirling and falling into the courtyard.

His thoughts drift with the wind.

This year's northern wind is stronger than in previous years.

This year is the first year of Yonghe in the Eastern Jin Dynasty, the eleventh year of Jiawu in the Later Zhao, the thirty-third year of Jianxing in the Former Liang, the second year of Taihe in the Cheng Han, and the eighth year of the founding of the Dai State.

Heroes are divided, and the fires of war rage.

On this day, there is heavy snow in the south.

After the Yongjia turmoil, many people believe that the chaotic times should be coming to an end.

But the rulers know very well that everything is just beginning.

——

On Mount Hua, there is also a snowfall, even heavier than in the south.

Only the sky is above, no mountain can match it.

No poem can better describe the majesty of Mount Hua and the insignificance of a person looking up at it from below.

On the rugged mountain path, a young man with a cane struggles, step by step, climbing upward.

A gust of wind blows in his face, he clenches his teeth, lowers his head slightly, and pushes forward against the wind.

The head can bow, but the steps cannot stop.

But his foot slips on a stone, whether icy or moss-covered, and he slides down the slope he had just climbed with great difficulty.

The young man struggles to reach out, trying to grab something, but there is nothing but smooth rock and cold snow.

He has lost count of how many times he has slid down like this. Maybe this time, he will just let it be.

This path, he really doesn't want to walk anymore.

Sliding down the slope, the young man opens his eyes, the heavy snow almost hitting his face.

It hurts so much.

But soon he loses the sensation of pain.

The heavy snow, in a daze, seems like willow catkins dancing in the spring breeze.

Falling on his body, it is so soft, even entering his nose, making him feel annoyed.

Where is the warm spring?

The young man gradually loses consciousness.

In the distance, footsteps can be heard on the mountain path.