A boy is born to the king.
Timid and weak he may be,
Lost in thought to stories of old,
Yet the bards will sing of his feats.
One day he says: I must be strong,
The warrior has chosen me.

Tempted by fortune's treachery,
He would lead the conquest of the world.
History made him immortal,
But at what cost was this ordained?
This poor boy dragged forth his great soul
To the strongest is what he said,
While the gods comfort him in bed.

Let's not weep for him who lies dead,
But for the poor boy who once was.

Prison? No…
You have to calm down, Byron. I only like women.

Why are you freaking out about work? I will do what I can.

I have my own keys, Byron. I have no extras.

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It's ok. Where's LuQi?