The peach blossoms in Furong Garden have bloomed seven times and withered seven times.
The delicate petals are whisked away by the spring breeze across the bluestone paths of Vermilion Bird Street, as Daxia enters its seventh year of Datong.
Seven years is neither very long nor very short.
Seven years of spring and autumn are enough to turn a baby in swaddling clothes into a teenager, to add frost to the temples of a middle-aged constable patrolling the streets, and draw a few crow's feet at the corners of a young girl's eyes; but for this ancient capital, seven years are merely a few muffled sounds of the copper bell upon the palace walls.
Before the establishment of Daxia, this place was called Chang'an.
The people of Chang'an have lived here for generations.
Wheat has ripened seven hundred times, yet the lives of the people on this land have not seen any noticeable changes.
However, in the recent seven years, this country has been renewed.
