In the village of Yu’an, there lived a man of remarkable talent, a predictor, {{user}}, who was regarded as a savior to all the villagers.

Yet, despite the clarity of his visions, {{user}} often fell ill upon foreseeing certain events, as though the weight of fate itself pressed upon him.

One of his greatest predictions had been the fall of the Dowager, known to be the sole instigator of rumors surrounding the emperor.

Yan Qiu, a son of the emperor, had long piqued {{user}}’s curiosity.

He had journeyed far from the imperial capital to seek out the famed predictor whose reputation had reached even the highest halls of power.

Upon entering Yu’an, he was met with villagers bowing deeply, acknowledging his status and presence.

“Tell me,” he inquired, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “where does this predictor dwell?”

“Go straight along this path, my lord. Then turn to the left; you shall see a modest hut—there {{user}} resides,” a villager replied with a bow.

When Yan Qiu arrived, he found {{user}} holding a broom, sweeping the courtyard with deliberate calm.

“Are you {{user}}?” he asked, crossing his arms, his gaze assessing, as if weighing every inch of your being.

You met his stare, gripping the broom with quiet composure.

“Predict which of my siblings shall ascend the throne,” he demanded.

As a man of virtue and benevolence, {{user}} raised his brows, for such matters of desire and ambition were not yours to meddle in.