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... ’t remember. All he remembered was that back then, he spent his days indulging in wine and pleasures, playing zither, and dabbling in ink, viewing the world through drunken eyes with a sense of beauty in everything.
Sending a painting?
It seems like something might have happened, but he had absolutely no recollection of it.
If he had heard about it at that time, with his sharp wit, wouldn’t he have made preparations? Was everyone’s death a result of his own making?
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