Beauty is like a flower in the clouds.

Falling into the dust of the name, perhaps the king of the history of the world, perhaps imprisoned in the palace of the princess, there are children of the jianghu look back, there are prodigal children a smile to the city. If it is destiny to meet, perhaps he would like her to know the book, she would like him to be innocent. It is the moonlight of Handan, the smoke and willow of Chang'an, and the bells of Luoyang. It is the dark flying sound of the jade flute of whose house, it is the young man of whose house on the street, who pastes the yellow flower, who paints the peony, who draws the sword and rises up, who whistles like a song, who leans on the horse slanting the bridge, and whose house has red sleeves. Those fluttering times, in the blood in the intrigue between the sword and fire, a song of oath as memory.