Stars and moon were absent, a cold wind howled, goose-feather snowfall blanketed the streets and alleyways, accumulating on rooftops. A line of carriages carrying flaming torches marched from each neighborhood's just-opened gate, their footsteps muffled by thick snow. They converged on Zhuque Street, forming a grand procession heading towards Chengtian Gate to attend court.,At the age of sixty, Fang Xuanling, wearing his official robes, stood in the courtyard with his hands behind his back. He looked up at the snow-covered roof and wore a face full of worry.,Although he was depressed as hell, Fang Jun still felt warm in his heart.。